


Hunting Shadows

by TangentiaLives



Series: The Ties That Bind [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama & Romance, F/M, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Pre-Quidditch World Cup, Quidditch World Cup, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 38
Words: 154,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TangentiaLives/pseuds/TangentiaLives
Summary: Fresh off finishing a hectic third at Hogwarts, Hermione embarks on a new summertime adventure in Bulgaria with Sirius Black as an unlikely companion, where she begins a new internship as a Healer’s apprentice with the Bulgarian National Quidditch team.Although Hermione and Viktor, the team’s star Seeker, have a rocky start, they quickly find themselves becoming entangled in each others’ lives both inside and out of the Quidditch stadium as they grow ever closer. However, darkness pools in the edges of light, and Hermione’s summer may be much much dangerous than she ever imagined...
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum
Series: The Ties That Bind [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2153004
Comments: 601
Kudos: 556





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank my awesome alpha, Constance. Without you, I would never have posted this. Thanks for making me brave.

She’d made it.

It was hard to believe that she’d successfully completed her third year at Hogwarts, given the turmoil she’d been in and the almost unbelievable things she’d seen and done. Somehow, all within the span of a year, she’d gained the ability to turn back time (and had done so extensively), saved an endangered hippogryff from execution, helped rescue an escaped convict from sudden death, flown on said hippogryff  _ with  _ the escaped convict, seen a rat turn into a human, and watched a human turn into a rampaging werewolf.

All that insanity, of course, took place in the background of completing twelve classes and achieving  _ Outstandings  _ on them all. She would accept no less.

Truthfully, she was ready for a break from the maddening pace she had maintained all year and was quite looking forward to a normal summer filled with reading and extra time with Jasmine, who would no doubt be ready to go on some long rides along the river. 

It would be good to get away from all of this, she thought ruefully. The Time-Turner, so very slight but so completely and utterly heavy, weighed around her neck. All she had left to do was return the golden hourglass, grab her things—already packed, of course—and head down to meet the boys in the Entrance Hall. After that, all she had ahead of her was a blessedly uneventful summer. Lots of reading to do, of course, if she wanted to be properly prepared for her O.W.L.s (she was ahead of her two year revision plan thanks for the Time-Turner, but knowledge waited for no woman) and a vacation to France with her parents, but otherwise, it would be blessedly uneventful. 

The gargoyle blocking the way up moved suddenly, distracting her from her daydreams of her mother’s cooking. Once the staircase was no longer blocked, she made her way up them to Dumbledore’s office. It was just as she remembered: a treasure-trove of rare items and books that begged for exploration but were disappointingly off-limits. Her eyes lingered on some kind of floating orb with rotating rings around it. Had she known better, she would have thought it a model of one of the planets, but—

“Miss Granger,” the Headmaster interrupted her thoughts, greeting her while he stroked Fawkes’s head from where the phoenix stood on his stand. “Congratulations on finishing another year with top marks.”

She flushed. “Thank you, Headmaster,” she replied, bowing her head at his praise. She felt compelled to add, “My marks aren’t in quite yet, however, so I don’t want to accept congratulations where they aren’t due.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “I’m certain your concern is unwarranted, Miss Granger, but you do yourself credit with your modesty.” 

It wasn’t modesty, she thought as she watched him return to his desk and pluck a candy from a tray atop it. It was terror that she’d been unable to juggle everything adequately enough to keep her grades up. 

“Lemon drop?” the Headmaster offered kindly, and when she shook her head, he unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth. “As happy as I would be to while away this lovely summer afternoon speaking with you, I suspect that this is not a social visit. Could it be that you have something to return to me, perhaps?” 

“Yes Sir.” She nodded, bent her head, and lifted the chain that the Time-Turner was threaded through over her bushy hair. The warm metal slithered through her grip like silk, sometimes catching as if it did not want her to be able to grasp it and be rid of it. But she managed, coiling it neatly before placing it on the desk. 

The sight of it sitting so innocuously on the desk made her irrationally angry. She had willingly subjected herself to it and its powers, used it to slip back in time again and again, until the days had slipped away from her, until she’d forgotten to eat and sleep at times, forcing her to turn back yet again simply to catch up on sleep. By the end, she wasn’t sure if she still ruled the Time-Turner or if it had ruled her, instead. 

Expectantly, she waited for him to pick it up, but he tilted his head for a long moment, watching her. “Miss Granger,” he said at last, “I have a proposition for you. Now, you are not obligated to accept it, of course, but I rather think you might like it. What would you say,” he leaned forward, eyes twinkling, “to continuing your studies over the summer?”

Her interest was piqued. “Sir?”

“It has come to my attention that you are, perhaps, interested in becoming a Healer?”

How he knew that was beyond her. She’d mentioned it to Madam Pomfrey in passing when she had been in the Hospital Wing looking in on Harry but hadn’t told anyone else of it. She wasn’t sure; she was just thinking about it. But it did make sense, really, given the situation. Someone had to know how to heal if they were going to keep getting themselves into these incredibly dangerous situations. Besides, it would make her parents happy that she was taking after them as much as she could. And the academic rigour of it all...yes, she thought she would be very well suited to it indeed.

“I’m considering it,” she replied cautiously.

“That is most excellent to hear, most excellent indeed.” He nodded, almost as if to himself, and then fixed his incredibly piercing blue eyes on her. “I have the opportunity to extend an offer of a summer-long apprenticeship to you to one of the foremost Healers in the field, one Krasmira Lazarov. She is renowned for her skill in the field, as well as her—hm, how shall I put this—unique personality. While she does not normally take apprentices, she has agreed to sponsor you for the summer.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. Even she had heard of Madam Lazarov. The Healer was known for her unorthodox approach to healing, especially towards trauma-based injuries, and had pioneered some methods currently being used in the field. “That’s incredible, Sir,” she breathed. “But...she’s not attached to Saint Mungo’s, is she?” Last she’d heard, Lazarov was traveling.

“Indeed not, Miss Granger. She is currently attached to a Quidditch team as their primary Healer, as they provide a range of, shall we say, intriguing injuries that she can heal. She told Poppy—Madam Pomfrey—once that she did her best thinking under immediate pressure, and Quidditch provides both the pressure and the injuries in droves.”

Quidditch? She stifled the instinctive distaste at the idea of working so closely with the sport and thought it over as objectively as possible. While she had no particular enduring love for Quidditch, the opportunity to work with Madam Lazarov was something she couldn’t, in good conscience, pass up. Besides, she thought pragmatically, patients were patients, no matter how they got the injury—even if it was by hurtling through the air suicidally fast in the name of athleticism.

“I would be traveling with the team, then?” 

Dumbledore nodded. “Wherever they go, Madam Lazarov goes and therefore, you would go as well. The Bulgarian National Team, who she currently works with, trains in Sofia, but given the situation with the Quidditch World Cup coming up in August here in Scotland, they are traveling a considerable amount. You would not have to concern yourself with lodgings or financing, my dear. It would all be taken care of.”

She might not know the first thing about the Quidditch World Cup nor the Bulgarian National Team, but if there was one thing she did know, it was caution. The last few years had made certain of that. “Sir,” she hesitated. “What’s the catch?”

Dumbledore seemed taken aback. “The catch?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t quite understand. Why me, Sir? I’m quite a bit younger than is traditional for an apprenticeship…” she trailed off helplessly. 

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses, and shifted in his chair. At the sudden movement, Fawkes brindled, nudging the professor’s shoulder irritably before fluttering off to his perch. “As it happens, I do have a favor I would like to ask of you.”

She wove her fingers together nervously in her lap. With a man like Dumbledore, a favor could mean anything, including—she gulped—joining the team herself. Or worse, talking Ron into it. He had every trading card ever made for the team, after all. 

“Oh?” she asked, dread setting in the pit of her stomach.

“However wrong Sirius’s conviction and subsequent imprisonment at Azkaban was, he still stands as an escaped convict. He needs somewhere safe to hide, and that can no longer be Hogwarts. He will, therefore, be acting as your guardian, should you choose to accept it.”

Taken aback and more than a bit lost, Hermione blinked. “What?”

Dumbledore touched the tips of his fingers together, peering at her through his half-moon spectacles. “To put it plainly, Sirius Black needs to escape the country and hunt down Peter Pettigrew. He will be disguised, of course. We can’t have Sirius running around Bulgaria with his poster in every wand shop.” He winked. “Sirius hopes to hunt Pettigrew down whilst acting as a guardian to you.”

She frowned. “Why not let him go on his own?” 

The thought of staying with someone who had spent years in Azkaban filled her with apprehension. After all, he had nearly torn Ron’s leg off just yesterday but... He was innocent, and perhaps now that he was out of Azkaban, he would become more civilized? That place would drive the sanest of men mad, after all. 

All Dumbledore offered was, "We have reason to believe Pettigrew may have fled the country, and a lone man is more suspicious than a single father with a child to care for."

Doubtfully, she replied, “I see,” although really, she didn’t at all. It seemed somewhat believable, she supposed. But Dumbledore worked in mysterious ways, and if he said this was important, and asked her for help, who was she to say no? After all, he had never steered her wrong before, and he had helped her take all the classes she had wanted by giving her the Time-Turner. 

She jumped with a start as Fawkes screeched shrilly, jarring her from her musings. Dumbledore looked at her questioningly.

“Of course, Sir. I’d be happy to have Black accompany me,” she said suddenly, surprising even herself. The instant the words were out, however, she knew she had made the right decision for both herself and for Dumbledore. Even for Black, she thought somewhat uncharitably. She still couldn’t bring herself to say his first name out loud, the images of the posters littering Diagon Alley with headlines like ‘ **MURDERER** ’ and ‘ **SECOND GRIM SIGHTING IN A WEEK!** ’ vivid in her mind’s eye.

Dumbledore clapped his hands together once, the sound startling her. “Excellent! There really is no one I would rather entrust this task to, Miss Granger,” he exclaimed, eyes twinkling. “You are wonderfully capable and terrifyingly self-sufficient.” While Mister Black will be posing as your guardian, you will be left to your own devices for the majority of the summer, I’m afraid,” he added regretfully.

“If I can handle a Time-Turner, I can certainly take care of myself for a few months,” she said matter-of-factly. Dumbledore’s ever-present benevolent smile grew in response. 

Although, she admitted to herself, she wasn’t quite sure if the Headmaster’s faith in her was misplaced. If someone asked her whether or not she’d been taking good care of herself the last year, she wouldn’t be able to answer them. Aside from the sleep deprivation and the borderline malnourishment, she’d added quite some time to her age (maybe half a year? A year? She wasn’t sure) by accident as she’d made the miniature hourglass do as she asked. Well, mostly by accident. All right,  _ somewhat _ by accident, she amended peevishly, scrupulously honest even within the confines of her own mind.

“That is very true, my dear.” Dumbledore nodded, steepling his fingers together thoughtfully. “Very true, indeed. Well, then, it is settled, although I would like to detail exactly how you shall be assisting our Animagus friend.” He stood up from his chair and came around to face her. 

“First, you must promise to aid Mister Black to the best of your abilities.” 

“Of course.” It went without saying.

“I will need you to brew Polyjuice potion for him. I have…heard that you may have some experience with this potion?”

“Perhaps,” she replied evasively, keeping her expression perfectly even. “I have certainly read about it, and I do believe I could brew it given the resources and opportunity.” Hopefully that was evasive enough that he could read between the lines. She certainly wasn’t about to admit she had stolen Boomslang skin from Professor Snape’s personal stores and brewed it in the girl’s lav.

Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed as he leaned back in his chair. “I have complete faith in you, Miss Granger. I can provide the ingredients for you, and I have plenty of the necessary elements to change Sirius’s appearance to that of one Magellan Quickfoot. He is a German acquaintance of mine who is, let us say, a fan of communing with some of nature’s aspects for years at a time, during which he quite disappears.”

Just like that, the majority of the barriers to her success disappeared, leaving the path to this very sudden, very beneficial opportunity wide open. Her mouth went dry in a show of sudden nerves, and she swallowed. “Thank you for helping me with that, Sir. Is there anything else I should be aware of?” 

“Only that Quickfoot will meet you here in two day’s time. I trust you will be able to convince your parents to let you take this opportunity? I can always go talk with them myself, if you believe that would help.” Dumbledore seemed almost eager to do so, his eyes bright with expectation.

“No, no!” she replied hastily. The image of a bearded, twinkling, purple-garbed Albus Dumbledore meeting Mother and Daddy, who could not be more different than the Headmaster than if they’d been specifically created that way, threw her into a panic. “They’ll be fine with it, I’m certain. Only…” she hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I was supposed to go on vacation with them to France, you see, in early August before school starts?” And she had been so looking forward to spending some time with her parents, who she felt so far apart from already.

Dumbledore thought for a moment, took another lemon drop from the tray on his desk, and popped it into his mouth. “I believe we can work around that,” he said, chewing thoughtfully. “And if circumstances prevent it, we can—” he paused, “certainly, carve some time out for it.” His gaze dropped to the Time-Turner neatly placed on his desk, and it slid toward her until it was in easy reach.

She swallowed the nausea threatening to bubble up inside her. It had been so easy to be taken in by it the first time around, and given the choice, she would never use it again. Yet, if she could spend some time with her parents… Well, there really was no choice, was there? 

“Very good, Sir,” she told him, still staring at the hourglass, the gleaming sand sparkling in the afternoon light. “Then I have no other questions. I’ll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you reading for the first time, welcome to Hunting Shadows! I hope you enjoy. For those of you reading it through again, welcome back :)
> 
> Chapter Notes:  
> Please note that this chapter has been edited.  
> Original posting date: 4.3.20  
> Edits: 19.12.20


	2. Chapter One

**Part One: Summer**

If anyone asked Hermione Granger how she would be spending her summer, she would have told them that she was spending it with her parents on vacation in France. While this was still partially true, it was no longer _all_ true _._ She would never be able to tell anyone the whole truth, because half of it was illegal, and the other half was, quite frankly, unbelievable. Well, except for Harry and Ron, of course. She wouldn’t keep anything from them.

The nondescript sandy-haired man accompanying her looked around the living room of the house they had just walked into, dumped his bags at the feet of the couch, and sprawled all over the forest green cushions, one foot propped up on the arm rest. “Not bad, not bad at all,” a Polyjuiced Sirius Black drawled in a surprisingly mellow tenor, giving a little wiggle to settle deeper. “In fact, I dare say I could spend most of my time on this couch, exactly. Like. This.” 

Hermione gave the man a look of surprise. “Aren’t you going to put away your things?” she asked the fugitive. It was the very first thing that she was going to do.

“Not at the moment, no,” Sirius replied, idly swinging a leg.

She shifted on her feet, feeling out of place. It was reminiscent of how she felt living with Lavender and Parvati: they were all stuck living together although they didn’t have much in common. This was certainly a different but arguably harder situation, but she owed it to him to at least try and reach out. “What about a tour of the rest of the house? I’m going to go look around.”

He waved a hand indolently. “Have at it, kitten. I’ve already taken a look around.”

She frowned at the nickname, knowing he said it just to get a reaction out of her. The first time he’d called her that, when Dumbledore brought the two of them together only a week earlier, she’d scowled at him. Delighting in her reaction, he now gleefully added it on whenever he thought to. 

Pushing past that, she tried one more time. “Would you like to come with me?” She so terribly wanted to start this off on the right foot. Summer would be miserable if they didn’t get along, even though they wouldn’t really be spending all that much time together as they focused on their own tasks. 

He turned his head to look at her, Quickfoot’s disconcerting cornflower blue eyes meeting hers, and she had a moment of pure confusion watching someone she didn’t know wear the expressions of someone she _did_ know. Polyjuice could go rot, for all she was concerned. It tasted awful, it didn’t last very long—only up to twelve hours depending on the strength of the potion—and it took rather a long time to make. However, Sirius hadn’t had much choice: if he wanted to pursue Peter Pettigrew across the world and do it with the help of Albus Dumbledore and the attendant power, he had to pass as a law abiding, responsible citizen. And she, little third year Hermione Granger, was critical to that plan.

She nearly laughed at the thought. 

“I think I’ll stay here and break this couch in for you and make it more comfortable for when you come home for the day. Takes a fair amount of work to do that, you know.” He adopted a long-suffering look. “But I’ll do anything for _you_ , my dearest, darlingest poppet. After all, I am your guardian.”

“More like I’m your gatekeeper,” she shot back, folding her arms. “I know you’re not exactly keen on the idea of being responsible for me, but I can assure you I’m perfectly sufficient on my own in everything but name. I’ve got quite a lot of experience at it. You won’t need to do a thing. I’ll go to my apprenticeship and keep you in supply of Polyjuice, and you can do…whatever it is you’ll do.” She was still rather sparse on those details.

Sirius blinked at her, threw a hand over his eyes, and crossed his boots on a throw pillow. “Sounds good to me. I’ve got a lot of planning to do, so I’ll get to it.” Then, to all appearances, he went to sleep. How that qualified as planning, she wasn’t sure.

Mentally, she shrugged at the entire exchange. If he didn’t want to cooperate, that was on him. She could try again later.

Curiosity abounding, she made her way through the nearest door. It opened into a small but perfectly serviceable kitchen with all the appliances and a small table for two nestled against a large window that looked out into a nicely sized garden in full bloom. Briefly, she shot a silent thank you to Molly Weasley for mentioning _A Housewitch’s Guide to Cooking_ last summer when they’d all gone to Flourish and Blott’s together. Otherwise, she’d be completely adrift when trying to use the wizarding equivalent of kitchen appliances.

She exited the kitchen, letting the door bang closed—Sirius didn’t stir one bit from the couch—and passed through the living room again to continue her exploration. The rest of the lower floor was much like a typical middle class British house, really, with a small sitting room and library, a small closet right off the main door, and a staircase upstairs. 

Quickly she peeked into the bedrooms, of which there were three. She was tempted to take the master bedroom to spite Sirius, but the third bedroom, the coziest of them all, was tastefully decorated in creams and soft greens. Its main selling point, however, was that it overlooked the garden, which was riotously and joyfully in bloom. Satisfied, she enlarged her trunk and placed it at the foot of the bed after she opened the windows, letting the fragrant perfume of flowers in bloom waft in.

Taking a deep breath, she smiled and closed her eyes for a long moment, almost feeling her body relax. It was hard to believe she was here, spending the summer in Bulgaria. Although it was simultaneously nerve-wracking and unbelievably exciting, she knew she could face whatever came her way. If she could survive the last year, she could survive anything.

Her eyes flicked to her trunk, and she could almost feel the presence of the Time-Turner locked away in a secret compartment, the golden necklace beckoning her, enticing her. She swallowed hard and made to move towards the chest when the sound of the window’s shutters suddenly hitting the outside of the house brought her back to the present, snapping the lure of the Time-Turner. 

Hermione shook her head hard, dispelling the phantom sensation of the golden chain slithering against her skin. Enough of that. She had a lot to do before she met Healer Lazarov, like revising all her notes for the past three years in the Transfiguration, Potions, DADA, Herbology, and Charms, the five main disciplines required to become a healer. Add that to her _other_ notes, the notes about everything she had read about that she _shouldn’t_ know (according to the curriculum) but did anyways, and she had hours of work to do. Days, really, but she had hardly had time to prepare her things to get here in time. 

The ever-present stress headache and feeling of perpetual exhaustion she’d felt all year began to creep up in her temples again. She sighed, a bit overwhelmed at the thought of all that work. But if there was one thing Hermione Granger didn’t do, it was shirk from work. 

She cast a quick _tempus_ to check the time, glad that Dumbledore had talked to the Ministry to temporarily lift her wand restrictions since it made her life much easier. It was half three. Surely she had enough time for a quick nap. It would help her refresh herself after a day of bureaucratic red tape, paperwork, and traveling, she reasoned, feeling the bed beckoning. Yes, a nap sounded very good to her tired body indeed.

The heat wasn’t unbearable, so she left the windows open and laid on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable, not needing a cushioning charm, and she sunk into it with a sigh, eyes closing. The sound of leaves rustling and the soft summer air against her skin quickly lulled her into a light doze. She drifted off easily, glad for the quiet respite after a year’s worth of frantic movement trying to keep up with everything. She had been so tired for so long that she’d almost forgotten what it was like to slow down and steal a moment for herself, and it would only be for a moment. As soon as she woke up from her nap, she would unpack. 

The stale taste of sleep in her mouth was the first thing she noticed as she opened her eyes blearily, quickly followed by the pale morning light streaming through the still-open windows. The indication of early morning snapped her out of her haze rather quickly, and a rapidly cast _tempus_ revealed it was half six. She relaxed marginally, thankful she still had an hour and a half before being expected to be at the Vulture’s training ground, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. It wasn’t quite as bad as it could be, but she hadn’t had time to review her notes, or unpack, or even get food. 

Her stomach rumbled in protest, but she barely spared a moment for thought, mind firing rapidly now that she wasn’t so exhausted. Merlin, she must have slept for ages and ages, surely more than twelve hours, but she felt much more like herself now than she had yesterday. The grime of travel and the stale feeling of a hard sleep clung to her skin. Quickly, she fixed that by jumping in and out of the shower, casting a quick drying charm on her hair, and braiding it back away from her face and tying it off with a ribbon. 

As she hurriedly made her way through her morning routine, she frantically mentally revised all her Transfigurations and Charms knowledge—although she was absolutely certain she had missed some—by the time she made it downstairs and into the kitchen. Thankfully, there was some food stocked, and she quickly toasted some bread and grabbed some fruit before heading to the fireplace. She swallowed the last bit of toast, stuck the apple in the pocket of the plain burgundy robe that had been supplied to her by the Vultures, and threw some floo powder at the hearth. The flames turned green, and she took a deep breath, quelling her nerves and the rising excitement rising inside her. 

This was it. Her first day as an apprentice to Krasmira Lazarov, one of the world’s most premier Healers…and the primary Healer to the Bulgarian National Team. 

She bit her lip, squared her shoulders, and clearly stated, “Vratsa Vulture’s main entrance!” before stepping through.


	3. Chapter Two

Viktor's first memory was of his parents arguing, his father's low voice rolling over his mother's clarion clear alto. At some point Kosta, his beloved brother, scooped him up and took him far away from the sizzling anger to a place where only the powder blue sky and the swoop and twist of the broom mattered. The feeling of weightlessness, of complete and utter freedom, still felt like nothing else he had ever experienced. So many years later, his brother's rare laughter after he had imperiously demanded "Faster, Kosta!" still rang in his ears as he straddled his Firebolt on the pitch.

"Clara told me we were getting a new Healer," Pyotr mentioned casually as he, Alexei, and Viktor did warm up laps and stretching exercises. "An apprentice." His dark eyes glittered as he paused for a moment for dramatic effect, then finished delivering his news with relish. "She's _English_."

" _Maina!_ An English girl?" Alexei repeated incredulously, shaking his head in amazement. The sun caught and highlighted the undertone of auburn streaks in his friend's dark hair as the wind ruffled it. "Are you sure Clara heard right?"

Pyotr drew back in mock offense, placing a large hand over his heart as the other casually gripped his gleaming yet scarred bat. "Are you questioning my sources?"

"No, I'm questioning your _source's_ sources," Alexei corrected.

"It has to be true," Pyotr insisted. "You know how Clara and Krasmira get when they drink together."

Viktor nodded thoughtfully. It was true. Both the Chaser and the Healer had the tendency to spill any and all secrets when they'd had a bit too much Firewhiskey, which was why he never told either of them anything of importance no matter how much they, especially Clara, badgered him. Krasmira was usually too busy being her usual...charming...self to bother him. "What is she doing here?" he asked curiously. "It doesn't make sense. Shouldn't she be working with the English team?"

"She's probably old and spotty," Alexei said forlornly. "You know how the English get as they age. Hunched and wrinklier than a _Banitsa_." He shuddered, his own smooth, young skin glowing in the warm sunlight.

"Actually, I heard from Clara who already talked to Krasmira that the girl is quite pretty."

Pyotr shrugged. "And as for why, who knows? And honestly, who cares?"

"How has Clara had time to talk to Krasmira?" Alexei demanded. "It's barely half nine, and Islov has been yelling at her since she got here!"

"Do I look like her keeper?" Pyotr shot back. "Look, I'm just saying what I've heard. I was thinking I would go check her out later today and see what she's like."

"You, Clara, and Krasmira are the worst bunch of gossips I've ever met," Alexei said, shaking his head. "You have to know everything."

It was true. Despite the National Team only having banded together a year before, drawing players from most of the Bulgarian League teams and recalling players on other international teams, Pyotr and Clara seemed to know everything about anyone on the team. Sometimes Viktor wondered if they had informants whose only purpose was to gather information on their fellow players scattered throughout Bulgaria.

"If I didn't know everything that was going on, both of you would be completely out of the loop. You should be _thanking_ me, not judging me." The Beater sniffed and hit the flat of his bat against his thigh. "I am the lifeblood of this team. I am the best -"

"Beater in all of Bulgaria and the man who carries this team to victory," Alexei recited dully, echoing their friend's familiar refrain while Viktor, unimpressed, simply folded his arms and stared at Pyotr with an arched brow.

Pytor nodded, nose stuck up in the air. "Precisely. Thank you."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself to fall asleep at night, Vulchanov." Alexei rolled his eyes, exchanging a long-suffering look with Viktor before returning to Pyotr. "So what, you're just going to walk in and stare at her? You know Krasmira would hex you if you went in without a reason."

"I'm not a complete idiot," Pyotr replied, swinging the tail end of his broom around and good-naturedly knocking Alexei's with it. Alexei rolled with the hit, peeling down and away before beginning his own loop, shaking a fist at Pyotr as he blew past them.

"What do you think, Viktor?" Pyotr asked him directly, expression interested. "Curious about the new girl? She's probably a fan of yours. Maybe she'll ask for an _autograph_." He wiggled his eyebrows, implying something else altogether.

The thought of having to deal with one of his fans every single day while he worked on his craft made his stomach curdle. Surely Islov and Lazarov would have vetted that out when hiring staff for the team. It went without saying that the vast majority of people who worked with Quidditch teams tended to love the sport - Krasmira was no exception - but they had to have weeded out the truly zealous types. It would do no good for the team to be surrounded by groupies that spent more time panting after players than doing their jobs.

"So long as she doesn't bother me, and she can heal well enough, I don't care. I'm here to play." And revise. If he wanted to get Izklyuchitelens on the MLOK at the end of his seventh year, he had to keep revising.* He'd already been contacted by several Quidditch teams that wanted to scout him to play after he graduated, but Quidditch wasn't a permanent career, no matter how he wished it was. If he wanted to pursue the path of a Weather Wizard to help the Krum holdings and tenants prosper as he planned, he had to be the best of the best academically. Weather Masters did not accept any apprentice that came along, and his skill with Quidditch likely wouldn't do him any good on the application.

His academic future weighed on him, as if he didn't already have enough to worry about. The fate of Bulgaria's pride also rested on his shoulders, and he could not let his teammates down after they had let him, the youngest by nearly five years, on the team. He was in the middle of the Quidditch World Cup qualifiers, for Merlin's sake. Academics shouldn't even be on his mind, let alone some new girl that could potentially affect the dynamics of the team.

"'I'm here to play'," Pyotr mocked. He shook his head in mock disappointment. "So much fame, and you're wasting it all. All you do is play and read, play and read. Don't you ever want to have fun?"

Eyebrow arched, Viktor replied, "I do have fun." And he did. He enjoyed learning about complex Charms and the plants native to Bulgaria. Both things were directly applicable to his future, and to the people he was responsible for ensuring prospered. While he enjoyed learning for the sake of learning, he had a duty not only to the family but also to those loyal to the family, and he would not fail them just because of sheer sloth.

Pyotr snorted. "Not that kind of fun, Krum. Life isn't just all Quidditch and books, you know. You should go out on the town with us more often. You're missing out."

"I would take all the girls from you if I did," Viktor taunted.

Pytor rolled his eyes. "You _think_ you could," he replied, and then affected a high-pitched voice, gushing, "Oh, _Viktor,_ you're just _so_ strong and handsome. Can I feel your biceps? Can I have your autograph? Can I have your firstborn child?"

Viktor grimaced. It wasn't inaccurate. "That is why I prefer to stay home and let you handle the attention. I don't like it, and you do."

Pyotr shrugged. "I do enjoy the perks of being one of seven of the most beloved athletes in Bulgaria. What's not to love? Free food, good press, lovely women pressing up against you and offering to 'sooth my aches' after a long game...it's heaven." He shuddered in mock ecstasy.

Viktor chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief, but Pyotr wasn't alone in basking in the fame. Many professional players enjoyed the fame as much, if not more, than Pyotr did, who, for all his talk, was fairly tame in his off-the-pitch behaviour (compared to other players he knew) and spent a lot of his spare time practicing or spending time with his sister. In fact, the Bulgarian team was quite tame and tended to keep out of the spotlight, which suited Viktor just fine.

While he knew he wasn't fit for the public eye - did not, in fact, _want_ , the attention - he needed Quidditch. He needed the feeling of flying to ever-dizzying heights so he could escape from the things that shackled him to the earth, to the feelings of fire and flame and pain. Without it, he would fall, and it would break fragile things that made up his very identity. Without Quidditch, Viktor would be a pale shadow of the man he hoped to be.

He shrugged and smirked at Pytor's antics. "You enjoy yourself enough for the both of us, _moyat priyatel_." He changed the subject. "Do you think Islov will make us do suicides today?"

They both looked over at Boris Islov, who was yelling at Lev Zograf as the Keeper yelled back and gesticulated wildly. Islov crossed his arms and Zograf kicked the air before returning back to the middle goal, body lined with anger.

"Maybe he'll forget because he's so busy yelling at Zograf for his foul during the game," Pyotr said hopefully. Then, like he had heard them discussing it, Islov's voice thundered through the pitch, aided by a _Sonorous_.

"One hundred and twenty laps at full speed! Thirty kneeling on the handle. Forty standing. Thirty kneeling. Twenty doing pair jumps - except you, Krum. Last twenty you do Wronskis."

Both Pyotr and Viktor paled. Islov was on the warpath, clearly unhappy that they'd won the game against the Spaniards by such a slim margin three days prior, and he was determined to fix whatever weaknesses they had by wringing it out of the one step at a time.

But twenty Feints in a row? Surreptitiously, he cast an anti-nausea charm on himself. The sheer velocity at which he dove at the ground before pulling up so steeply usually caused his stomach to feel as if he'd left it behind, but he could handle it - if he were to do it one time instead of twenty. Doing it twenty times without pause would make him toss up his breakfast if he wasn't careful.

Next to him, Pyotr choked out a laugh. "Don't want to share your breakfast with us, then?" He pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment. "Yeah, even precious wonderboy Seeker wouldn't get sent to Krasmira just for that. Good call."

He spelled his bat with a sticking charm so it wouldn't get away from him during the pair jumps, when they had to jump from their broom to another of their team's while going full speed, before brightening at a sudden thought.

"Hey, what if I hit Alexei _on accident_ ," his tone indicated otherwise, "while we did pair jumps? I could probably get us both hurt enough to get sent to Krasmira, especially since he makes us practice pair jumps ten metres off the ground." Doing so any higher, Viktor knew, could cause permanent and lasting damage if one of the players missed catching the broom, and the probability was much higher for Pyotr and Ivan, the other Beater, since they only had one free hand.

"You're crazy," Viktor said flatly, crossing his arms. "You'd risk getting seriously injured just to see a girl?"

Pyotr looked at him like _he_ was the crazy one. "Yeah. Besides, she works with Krasmira. Maybe she'd heal me right up. Better yet, maybe she'd kiss me better, too." His tone turned lascivious, and Viktor shot a look skyward as if pleading for patience. Pyotr was the biggest womanizer he knew. The man simply loved women and wasn't afraid to use his fame to get them.

"You're insane," Viktor repeated, "but it could work. I still can't believe you'd risk the rest of the season to see this girl, though." He wouldn't risk a chance at playing for any girl in the world.

It was Pyotr's turn to look at Viktor like he was crazy. "Viktor, we employ the best Healer in the sport, and even though Yura's gone now to the Swedes, we've got the new girl. Krasmira wouldn't take just _anyone_ on, you know that. Between the two of them, I'm not worried in the slightest. Besides," he said, sobering up, "I wouldn't jeopardize this team for anything. We will win this year. For us, but more importantly, for Bulgaria."

Viktor nodded, determination running through his veins. "For Bulgaria," he echoed.

With that, they nodded at each other and lined up with the other players, all of them making last second equipment adjustments as Islov stared them down with gimlet grey eyes. "We have two week until the match with Morocco," he said, his broom perpendicular to the players'. "Two measly weeks to whip you sorry bunch into shape. We were sloppy against the Brazilians because we got tired. Even if the match takes six hours - no, _ten_ hours! - I want to see agility. I want to see energy. I want to see clean lines when you fly, no matter the conditions!"

His voice cracked against them like a whip before it softened ominously, and Viktor found himself leaning forward on his broom along with the rest of his mates as Islov continued, "I am going to tire you out until you wished you were dead, and _only_ then will we begin our practice match. Anyone who I deem is not giving their all will have to do an additional set of punishments at the end of practice. I expect the best from you because _Bulgaria_ expects the best of you. _Do I make myself clear?"_

" _Da_!" The team snapped back.

He surveyed them all for a long moment, sun-weathered face carved with lines. "Very well," he said at last, ascending a few metres before putting on his own goggles in preparation to fly at the maximum thirty metres per hour alongside his own players. If there was one complaint Viktor didn't have about Islov, it was that he was a lazy coach.

"On my mark…" he called, and Viktor shifted into position low over his broom, hands curving around the wood handle he knew as well as his wand. The pitch was deadly quiet for a moment, even the wind anticipating Islov's call, and Viktor tensed. "Go!"

Galvanized, he shot off, the sting of wind against his unprotected skin all-too-familiar, and settled in for doing what he did best. His mind cleared of anything else but the task at hand, and he didn't think of the mysterious English girl again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who loves the Quidditch team? We love the Quidditch team! Oh, and Viktor. Him too.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Maina = an exclamation. Basically like "You don't say!" or something like that. It's not really super translatable. (According to Google)
> 
> Moya priyatel = my friend
> 
> Notes:
> 
> * "Is on the MLOK": This is as close as I could get to NEWTS. The MLOK is Slovenian for newt, and in the official HP Slovenian translation is Mimoriadna Legálna Odborná Kategória (Extraordinary Legal Professional Category). Why Slovenian, you ask? Because it's the most similar language to Bulgarian that I could find on the Harry Potter fandom wiki that had a translation. The I stands for izklyuchitelen, which is a literal translation of Outstanding. I tried.


	4. Chapter Three

Hermione had recently confronted a werewolf, two animagi, and a hippogriff with minimal injuries to show for it, but she still felt weak as a newborn lamb in the face of Krasmira Lazarov's penetrating expression. The Healer, who was about forty or so if Hermione had to guess by appearance alone, had piercing black eyes and a large patrician nose that sat on an equally angular face. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe french braid, accentuating the sharp angles of her jawline. Her robes, which were undoubtedly tailored, had narrow sleeves and were clasped in place across her chest with small chains.

For a brief moment, Hermione wondered if Severus Snape had any Bulgarian relatives, or if they perhaps both attended a seminar or something on how to wordlessly intimidate others. She swallowed as the Healer ever-so-slowly took her measure from bottom to top, starting with her slightly scuffed trainers to her bushy brown hair.

"So," Madam Lazarov said at last in perfect, slightly accented English, "you are what Albus has sent me to work with. He has assured me that you are the brightest that Hogwarts has to offer, despite your age, but that does not matter."

Hermione's jaw threatened to drop, but she controlled herself as Madam Lazarov slowly approached her, hands clasped behind her back. "What matters," she said slowly, "is how hard you are willing to work. It is all well and good that you have the brains, Miss Granger, but do you have the determination?"

Hermione looked her straight in the eyes and spoke, determination running through her veins. "I do. I'm ready to work as hard as you need me to."

"Here in Bulgaria, in this club, we do not laze about. We are all part of a team that aims to propel its players forward to victory. You and I will prepare various remedies while the team trains, and we will go through various training scenarios in which players are maimed or seriously injured. Mark my words: what we do is essential. If we are not not prepared for every scenario, if we are not ready to take action at a moment's notice, players may die. Quidditch is not a forgiving sport, and I do not have the patience to train a girl who is only here to trail after men on brooms."

She bristled at the insinuation, but returned respectfully, "I assure you that I am not here to 'trail after men on brooms'. If I wanted to do that, I could do so much more easily at home than here. After all, one of my best friends is a Seeker for one of the teams at Hogwarts, and you don't see me trailing after him." Unless it was to badger him to do his homework, she mentally added.

Lazarov remained unconvinced, that was clear from her expression, but she turned without another word and headed deeper into the infirmary, which had approximately ten beds, three curtained off 'private' rooms, and two shut doorways at the end. The beds were all immaculately made, the sheets a crisp, no-nonsense white, though the top sheet and pillows had thick burgundy borders as well as the team's logo stitched on them.

Lazarov opened the door on the left and entered what appeared to be a fully equipped potions laboratory. The room was long and rectangular, with one incredibly long counter placed between four workbenches in the centre of the room. Along one wall, several cauldrons of varying types - was that one _silver_? - sat in stasis, while an unbelievable range of ingredients sat flush against the opposite wall, all neatly labelled and placed in rows.

"This is where I brew all the potions for the team," she announced, sweeping an arm expansively. "As you can see, it is a class four laboratory. It is equipped to handle even the most dangerous of potions. The room itself is warded should an accident occur." Her tone made it clear how likely she thought that to happen. "You shall be spending a large part of your time here. After all, there are some things that wand waving simply can not cure."

Suddenly, she turned around, robes snapping at her feet, to face Hermione directly. "What are the ingredients for a Draught of Peace?"

"Powdered moonstone, syrup of hellebore, powdered unicorn horn, and powdered porcupine quills," Hermione recited promptly, the image of page the ingredients flashing in her mind.* Thank Merlin she had read through both _Moste Potente Potions_ and _Helga Hedgebrooke's Guide to Healing Potions_ that day by the lake while she was also attending both Muggle Studies and Herbology via the Time-Turner. It was quite handy for her pursuit of learning: three Hermiones meant three times the learning. And it ended all in her head.

"And the steps for an Invigoration Draught?"

She rattled them off, pausing for a moment between steps eight and nine to make sure she had the timing of the stirring right - thirty-two times counter-clockwise in a smooth, even hand - before finishing triumphantly.

Krasmira looked down at her, unimpressed. "Why are the mandrakes sliced instead of cubed?"

"Slicing mandrakes adds potency and longevity to the potion, in particular because it interacts with the crushed lacewings. Were you to have mandrakes in another potion such as the Draught of Living Death, however, you would want to cube them to ensure the potion's potency was not, erm, overwhelming." As in, it didn't actually kill the poor sod who drank it.

"Hm." Madam Lazarov didn't offer anything else besides that, but Hermione supposed she had passed whatever sort of on-the-fly test that was since the Healer commanded, "Make one batch of Skele-Gro and one of PepperUp within the next two and a half hours. You may place them under stasis when you are finished. I shall be across the hall in my office if something dire occurs and you need me." Her tone indicated Hermione wouldn't get much help even if she did need her.

Hermione almost fell over. Two different potions in two and a half hours? She quickly did the calculations in her head and bit her lip. She'd have to brew them concurrently—and carefully. The Skele-Gro wasn't particularly complicated, but it had a rhythm to it that couldn't be disrupted or it would go foul.

"Is there a problem, Miss Granger?"

She swallowed. "No," she said, already looking at the empty cauldrons placed on a shelf below the ingredients on the right, "no problem whatsoever."

The next two and a half hours passed in a blur of concentration as she first readied her two cauldrons, obtained and prepared the ingredients, and then switched between making the two potions as the timing dictated. She cast modified _Tempus_ charms above them both that counted down the times and chimed when it was time to move to the next step, and fell into the resulting rhythm easily enough. Occasionally, she heard noises from the main room, and Madam Krasmira's voice mixed once or twice with some male voices as she talked with them. Otherwise, it was rather quiet and peaceful, which she appreciated.

She was just casting the stasis spell on the perfectly revolting orange PepperUp when Madam Krasmira swept in, looking just as perfectly coiffed as before. She stared at a somewhat limp-looking Hermione, whose robes and clothes were wrinkled from the heat the PepperUp gave off, gazed critically at both cauldrons, and sniffed. "That will suffice, I think. Now, for your spellwork." She strode off to the main infirmary again, casting an impatient, "Come along, Miss Granger," behind her.

Hermione blew out a breath and pushed tendrils of hair that had escaped from their braid off her face. She'd take 'sufficient' as a grade in this case, especially since she knew the two potions were textbook perfect. Honestly, it was better than anything Professor Snape had ever said to her, so she really couldn't complain. "Right, then," she said, and followed Krasmira out the door.

* * *

By the time Krasmira has done her best to empty Hermione's magical reserves via an extremely thorough examination of her wand technique and knowledge of applied Charms, DADA, Arithmancy, and Transfiguration, it was past time for lunch, and Hermione's stomach let her know it rather emphatically.

"I really am sorry," she apologized to Madam Krasmira when her stomach audibly rumbled. "I was just so nervous this morning…."

For the first time, Madam Krasmira's expression became slightly less foreboding, although Hermione wouldn't necessarily classify it as approachable. "Come. We are at a good stopping point for the morning, anyways, and it is best that I show you around now so you can familiarize yourself with the place. It is not the easiest place to navigate, so pay attention. I will only show you once."

Remembering how long it took her to find the infirmary this morning due to her not exactly keen sense of direction (or misdirection, as her father had once called it), Hermione nodded obediently and tried to pay as close attention as possible as Krasmira pointed out the main offices, the owner's office, the trophy hall, the equipment room, and so on, until her mind fairly spun with it all. Bugger. It was going to be like First Year at Hogwarts all over again. At least they didn't have moving staircases.

She was pathetically grateful when they arrived at what Krasmira called the Hall of Inequity, which in reality was really just a casual dining room with two long tables much like the ones in the Great Hall. Sunlight filtered through windows placed near the top of a high ceiling, making the simply furnished room bright and airy. "You can either sup here or you can request something from the kitchens and take it elsewhere," she explained. "The players are often split on where they eat. Some apparate into town while others regularly eat on the grounds. Feel free to go to the kitchens during irregular times as well - the elves are accustomed to feeding hungry players at all hours, and would be delighted to feed you, too."

Krasmira drew a worn out pocket watch from the pockets of her robes and frowned at the time. "I've got to be off, now, as I have lunch plans. I trust you can find your way back in an hour or so?" She hardly waited for Hermione's nod before the crack of apparition echoed through the room.

Hermione looked around the room, a little at loss about what to do next. Should she just sit here and eat alone? What if the players came in and she had to introduce herself? She wasn't exactly the best at making first impressions — she grimaced at the memory of her first lonely term at Hogwarts — and didn't want them all to hate her on sight because she thought she was good enough to sit with them all, what with her being a lowly apprentice and them all extremely skilled and famous quidditch players.

Her mind screeched to a halt for a moment as she really thought about what she had just thought about. Really Hermione? She asked herself. They're just Quidditch players. It wasn't like they were better than her just because their skills on a broom far outstripped hers. If she wanted to eat here, she would do precisely as she pleased.

Quite frankly, however, her curiosity about the training grounds outstripped her admittedly low urge to dine at the hall. She had only really seen the entrance, a massive, sprawling room lined with fireplaces for flooing, statues of the players, and moving photographs of the current line-up looking intense and skilled, as well as the disastrously complicated maze that somehow spit her out at the infirmary.

She bit her lip. Perhaps she could ask for a picnic basket to carry out? It was a rather lovely day outside, and considering how large the stadium was, they likely wouldn't notice her if she sat in the stands somewhere and ate. It would be nice to see them in action.

" _I do not have patience to train a girl who is only here to trail after men on brooms."_

Madam Krasmira's voice echoed through her mind, and she winced. Perhaps not, then. Well, she could doubtlessly find somewhere outside to picnic.

Her mind made up, she left the room and tried to find the kitchens. Surely they couldn't be _too_ far from the dining hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Regarding the Draught of Living Peace: Yes, those are the ingredients; I was also surprised to see everything was powdered...lol
> 
> I officially hit 75K for this fic today! Wooo *celebration emoji*
> 
> Happy Friday! Hope you all are staying safe, healthy, and sane.


	5. Chapter Four

"A broken arm and I didn't even get to see her," Pyotr said mournfully. Said arm, whose bones had been fixed by Krasmira in between narrowed eyes and lecturing on 'sacrificing the pride of the nation to see a little girl', looked little the worse for wear. The same could not be said for Pyotr himself, as the man sulked on top of his broom like a child deprived of his favorite toy.

" _Tapak_ ," Viktor said, wiping a hand over his face before wiping it on his thigh. He, like everyone else, was sweating profusely. It was a tie between which was more brutal, the sun or Islov, but between the two he was certain nobody would be left alive by the end of the day.

Pyotr waved Viktor's criticism away, flashing a gamine smile. "Perhaps, but I am an idiot who is good at hitting things, _da_?"

It was true. Pyotr had some kind of unnatural relationship with his bat that allowed him to hit Bludgers with unceasing accuracy towards his intended target. He was known and feared throughout the Southern European League for his stone cold focus that caused game-ending injuries. It was this skill that caused him to be selected for the National Bulgarian Team and that let him get away with his antics.

"Lunch time!" Clara caroled as she flew by them in a streak of chestnut hair and flapping robes.

Pyotr growled at her retreating figure. "I bet she's having lunch with Krasmira." He thumped a hand against the handle of his broom in frustration. "Dammit, she's going to hear everything about the girl first!"

Did it really matter who figured out what about the girl first? Viktor wondered as he and Pyotr headed down to the pitch to dismount and store their brooms. She certainly wasn't going to be some life-altering occurrence, but it might not be her so much as 'winning' the race to find out information about her, he thought idly. Pyotr and Clara were wildly competitive with each other off the field, always trying to one up each other. He wondered when they would finally realize that they were channeling their sexual attraction for each other into competition.

Even he, who was younger than them both by almost ten years, could see that much, as could everyone else. He had five galleons riding on them getting together by the end of the Quidditch World Cup, although some on the team had bet it would happen during the QWC Ball in July.

"Viktor!" Zev Lograf, the veteran Keeper for the team, called his name as they stored their brooms in their cubbies. "Come into town with us! We're getting _moussaka_ from that place you like!"

He thought about it, truly, he did. But the idea of going with part of the team, and undoubtedly some of the players from the reserves, into town for lunch did not appeal to him. There would be so many fans, and so many people, and they would want his attention, and he would have to smile and nod and _talk_.

"Tomorrow," he called back, raising his hand in the air in acknowledgement. The lure of his Charms text was too much to resist, especially since he was almost to the chapter introducing elemental charms. If he could finish it today, he'd reward himself by going out with the team for lunch tomorrow. Hopefully they would want to go somewhere more private; going out en masse tended to cause swarms of fans, and they all preferred quieter places during lunch where they could decompress.

"I'll hold you to that," Zograf replied before nodding to a couple others. With several loud cracks, the men Apparated, leaving Viktor alone in the room.

Quickly, he took off his shin guards and goggles, shrinking them and putting them in his cubby. An envelope addressed to him in a harsh, bold script lay innocuously on top of his folded shirt, and he frowned. What was Headmaster Karkaroff doing writing to him during the summer?

He broke the seal, a deep crimson wax embedded with Durmstrang's crest, and unfolded the letter, frowning as he scanned the script.

_Viktor, my boy,_

_Excellent job catching the snitch during the game against those Spaniards! You flew circles around Del Rey: the fool couldn't even figure out where the backside of his broom was. I am sure that you will continue to demonstrate your superb skill and bring Bulgaria to prominence in the Quidditch arena._

_I do not write to you about Quidditch, however. The next year at Durmstrang will bring many surprises, and I expect you to bring the same focus and drive to school as you do Quidditch. Something called the TriWizard Tournament is to be reinstated, where Durmstrang will be competing against top students from two other schools, Beauxbatons and Hogwarts, to win eternal glory and recognition for our school via a series of tasks over the course of a year. Of course, there will be a selection process to decide which students I will take with me to England — the competition takes place on Hogwarts' grounds — but I see it as a foregone conclusion that you will be attending and that you will be the champion. Because of this, I expect you to revise your schoolwork and do outside study for the summer. I have already sent several texts I think will be useful to your house. I look forward to your weekly reports on your progress. It is your duty, after all, as the best of Durmstrang's sons, to be at your best._

_Do not disappoint me._

_Karkaroff_

He inhaled sharply at the last line, hand tightening around the missive and crumpling it. Damn Karkaroff and his machinations. Weekly reports? Outside work in addition to revising his schoolwork? He was in the middle of progressing through the Quidditch World Cup, for Merlin's sake. Everyone expected him to carry the team and catapult Bulgaria to their first World Cup win, and now Karkaroff expected him to do the same for Durmstrang, too?

Damn him, and damn this TriWizard Tournament that he spoke so reverently of. He had enough on his plate, and his revisions for the MLOKs would have to suffice. Warily, he eyed the parcel that had been tucked underneath the letter and decided to at least page through the books. If they were relevant to his studies, he would read them. If not...well, Karkaroff would never know. Besides, he did not have any loyalty to the man, nor to Durmstrang. Not after last year.

Slowly he uncurled his hands, which had unconsciously fisted, and took a deep breath. The new stress still lingered, and he knew he would snap at others if he were to be in company. He needed a bit of time to himself to adjust to the new burdens placed on his shoulders. An idea occurred to him, and he made his way to the kitchens to request _kebapche_ with a side of _tarator,_ along with several carafes of water, to go. He would take it down to the river that followed the stadium's edge on one side and eat at its banks in the shadows of the trees. The elves were accommodating as always, and he thanked them tersely before apparating to his favorite place, the picnic basket firmly in one hand and his Charms text, which he'd taken from his bag, clutched in the other.

The world cracked into focus as he arrived, the sound of the slow moving river familiar against his ears, and he relaxed marginally as he turned around. Perhaps, he could get some —

About a hundred metres from him sat a girl on a picnic blanket, her hand holding a sandwich midway to her mouth. She was young, perhaps a year or two younger than him, her brown hair neatly corralled in a french braid.

His stomach dropped. A fan? Here? How had she discovered him?

He frowned, striding towards her, his legs eating up the distance. "What are you doing here? This is private property. You cannot be here."

Her face, which was quite delicate up close, with a dash of freckles sprinkling a pert nose and long lashes fringing hazel eyes, tightened as she frowned. "I'm eating lunch here," she said defensively, her Bulgarian heavily accented.

Even worse. A foreign fan. They were often the craziest ones.

Stiffly, he said, "You cannot be here. Leave, now."

Her shoulders hunched before they went down and her back straightened. "I have the right to eat here just as much as you do!" she shot back, clambering to her feet. He took perverse satisfaction that he was almost a head taller than her, and she had to look up to meet his eyes.

"No, you can't. I understand that you may have come here to find me and get what — an autograph? A picture? — but fans aren't allowed onto the grounds unless there's a game or a sanctioned event."

"A _fan_?" Her eyebrow arched, and she crossed her arms. "I don't know who you think you are, but I can assure you, I did not come here, to this precise spot, to ask for an _autograph_." Her tone was acid.

Who he thought he was? He was Viktor Krum, the Seeker for the very team whose stadium she was at, and she was intruding. Suspiciously, he asked, "Then what do you want?"

"To eat my sandwich!" She threw her hands in the air in exasperation before looking pointedly at the item in question, which was lying neatly on a napkin.

"Then eat it somewhere else," he said reasonably. "This is _my_ part of the river, _my_ place for solitude, and I certainly won't cede it to some pale skinned girl who fancies herself cleverer than the other fans. Look," he continued, crossing his arms, "if you want an autograph, I'll give it to you. Just promise you won't tell anyone where you found me — or how you got past the wards." He narrowed his eyes. "Really, I should call the Aurors for that."

"Why, you — _you_ — Fine!" She huffed, apparently beyond words, and squatted down to rapidly pack up her things, which really did appear to be a picnic lunch and a book or two. She picked up her robes — burgundy, of course, since it was the main team color — and laid them over her arm, brushing off some dirt and grass.

Fire snapping in her eyes, she retorted, "I'm going. See? Are you happy? You can have _your_ river and _your_ solitude all to yourself." She sniffed, that pert nose stuck in the air, and huffed. "A fan! Harry and Ron are going to laugh themselves sick!"

With that, she stomped off towards the training pitch, leaving him behind.

Well, he thought, watching as her figure receded until it rounded the side of the stadium, that went better than he expected. He settled onto the bank of the river, stripping off his flying robes and placing them on the ground next to him. It left him in a thin undershirt and trousers, and he sighed in relief as the cool breeze stroked against his overheated skin. That done, he turned to eating his lunch, his truly voracious appetite helping him polish off both dishes in minutes, before focusing on what he really wanted to: his charms text.

Many didn't expect it of him, but he truly loved charms. It was an incredibly useful and versatile subject, especially given his passions and responsibilities. There were multiple charms that he had had to perfect years ago when he had first taken up Quidditch in order to properly maintain his broom, such as the Cushioning Charm, the Charm to Cure Reluctant Reversers, and the Braking Charm and its more advanced cousin, the Horton-Keitch Braking Charm. These charms were critical to giving him an edge over his opponents — the better he casted the Reluctant Reverser, the faster he could change direction. The same went with the HK: if he could master the Charm, which was highly advanced, he would be able to brake easily and quickly. It was true that Quidditch was an athletic sport, but it was a wizard's sport as well, and the saying went that you knew how good a wizard was by his broom.

Viktor, of course, hadn't had as much time to master these charms given his age, but he was determined and motivated. He had first been interested in learning charms simply to apply the cushioning charm as he pleased because he flew so much it often wore off. However, as he played more and discovered the complexities of broom maintenance and allowed customization spells, he grew invested in his wandwork and charmswork so he could become a better player. Charms, once a subject he was ambivalent about, became one of the classes he cared most about.

Of course, it helped that charms had such wide ranging applications. While broom maintenance charms had rather narrow applications, other charms were not so easily classified, and he often wondered about the efficacy of applying charms generally useful in one context to another. For example, could he apply the simple _Depulso_ to a cloud and avert its course so it would ruin a field of crops? Could he use _Partis Temporus_ to temporarily gouge the earth and allow water to flow through it, since the earth would technically be parting? If so, would the earth return to its original form, or had the subversion of the charm from its original purpose and his altered intentions cause the earth to retain the new path?

The manipulation of the very world around him was unceasingly interesting, not only because he was so in tune with the air and wind but also because he was responsible for the land of the Krums and those who lived on it. He, as the second son, would be the steward, and that responsibility was not something that he took lightly. Hopefully knowledge of elemental magic, that of manipulating the environment around him, would be of considerable value to him as he took over his duties later on. There was so much he could use it for while working with the land. Water for rain, earth for soil, wind for fresh air, and fire. Fire, the element that he felt most similar to and yet so wished to distance himself from. However, it had its own uses, as it destroyed the old only to pave the way for new growth with rich, re-energized soil. All of them, tricky in their own unique ways, were things wizards studied their whole lives to learn.

He frowned down at his book and tapped the cover before spelling it open to the page he last read. While he didn't have his entire life to dedicate to the elements, he at least had time to read a chapter about them. It was a start.

He stretched out under the canopy of the tree and lay back, setting the book to float above him as he crossed his arms behind his head. As he read the first few lines, he felt his entire body begin to relax. Just him, the book, and the warm summer for the next — he checked the time — thirty-seven minutes.

But halfway through the chapter, the image of that girl popped into his mind, her hazel eyes crackling with indignation as she stood her ground with him and argued about her right to read her very own book where he now lay. There was something about her, he thought. Something...different. It almost made him wish he hadn't sent her away, but it was for the best. He had no time for fans or for complications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Surprise!! ehehehhe :) Let it not be said there was no spark at the outset...It was just a spark of a different kind, lol. I know it's Monday, but I am hoping to switch to updating twice a week depending on how soul crushingly busy I am at work. Fingers crossed that I can update twice, but I can be depended upon for once weekly on Fridays for at least 27 chapters, since I have them written!
> 
> For now, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know what you think. I am dying to talk to about this fic with someone!
> 
> ____________
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Tapak = idiot
> 
> Moussaka = an eggplant or potato-based dish that has ground meat and tomatoes and is topped with a white sauce; considered a Bulgarian staple
> 
> Kebapche = a long piece of grilled meat that consists of a mix of beef and pork; some compare the shape to a hot dog; traditional summer food that is often paired with beer
> 
> Tarator = a traditional Bulgarian dish, it is a yogurt-based soup with cucumbers, dill, and garlic; super refreshing


	6. Chapter Five

Maybe Sirius wasn't completely wrong, Hermione thought, stumbling through the fireplace and into the living room. Maybe what she really needed to do was just lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling for the next five years.

She moaned in blissful relief as she sank into the couch and placed an arm over her eyes. Ah, yes, peace and quiet. Just what she needed after such an intense first day. Madam Lazarov had really put her through her paces, pushing her both physically and mentally, and she had loved every minute of it. It was the first time she felt she had fully used her capabilities, as the Healer had demanded answers to questions even as she had pushed Hermione to perform spells. Even most of her questions were analytical and required critical thinking rather than recitation.

It was exhilarating, and it was only the first day.

 _Dear Harry,_ she began mentally composing her first letter to her friend, _how is your summer going? Have you begun your summer homework? I hope the Dursleys are treating you better than they have in the past,_ she doubted it, those wretched people, _and summer will be over before you know it!_ She paused for a moment, and then continued, _Snuffles is doing well: he seems to be having a wonderful time lazing about._ Though he could be a bit of a git. _I'm sure he misses you terribly; I'm no substitute for his favorite human! As for me, I'm having a grand time in Bulgaria with the Quidditch Team, but you'll_ never _guess what happened today on my first day._ The rest of the letter almost wrote itself as she relayed the events that took place at the river— _the player thought I was some kind of rabid fan there to get an autograph_!—and she filed it away to write and to post later that evening.

Wait. She didn't have an owl. Perhaps it was time she got one, since she wrote back home so frequently. Harry had been a love to let her use Hedwig so often, but she couldn't rely on Hedwig forever. Besides, if she was to be living here for the next couple months, the cost of international postage using a public owl would eclipse the cost of buying her own owl if she ended up sending enough letters, which would happen sooner rather than later.

Suddenly, Sirius, or rather, Magellan, clattered down the stairs, looking rather dapper in a navy suit and black striped waistcoat, over which he wore robes the color of butterscotch. While she wouldn't have picked such a bright set of robes for herself, it made his straw colored hair, which he'd tied up in a queue against his neck, turn a striking gold. She hardly recognized him.

He took in her limp pose with a glance and asked, "Long day, kitten?"

She let the name pass without comment, rather too tired to muster up the energy for it. "Good day," she returned, "but long. I think you were right about the couch thing yesterday."

His mouth split into a grin. "Lazing about is the perfect afternoon — or morning, or really any time — activity. So, meet any handsome blokes ready to sweep you off your feet and fly away with you?" He flourished his wand, affecting a dueling stance. "Should I be prepared to defend your honor? You know, since I'm your guardian and all."

He really did seem to get some perverse sense of satisfaction out of being labeled an authority figure.

Against her will, a smile tugged at her lips. "I don't think you'll have any blokes to ward off today," she replied. "I spent most of the day working with Madam Lazarov, and I hardly met anyone."

He arched a brow. "Nobody got injured? I find that hard to believe. When I played pick-up games, someone always got hurt. It drove Madam Pomfrey positively batty." Suddenly his expression shuttered, his eyes turning flat and dangerous. For a long moment, she watched Sirius fall inside himself, but the lighthearted version of the man returned a moment later. "So not a single bloke, then?" he asked, forced levity in his tone.

"Not a single one." She wasn't going to tell him about the Quidditch player with some kind of grudge. Hermione could take care of him herself. "Besides, it's not like they'd be interested. I'm rather too young for them, don't you think?"

He frowned. "You're what, thirteen?"

"Almost fifteen," she corrected, and his eyes widened in surprise. "I'm old for my year, and then I used the Time-Turner a rather lot." She shrugged. "So I'm almost fifteen. I think."

He nodded slowly, eyes hooded. "I hadn't thought you used the Time-Turner that much, even though I'd seen bits of it from where I was hiding by the lake. And you've had no lasting side effects?"

She thought of the way she constantly slightly yearned to fall through time again and again, the feeling when she emerged on the other side euphoric. Slowly, she shook her head. "Nothing too bad," she replied with a shrug.

He pursed his lips for a moment before seeming to take her at face value. Continuing on his earlier tangent, he told her, "You are rather young, kitten, but I think that you'd be surprised what could happen in wizarding society. Age isn't really so much a boundary as you think. Most Quidditch players are young, and wizards don't age like Muggles do. Besides, I think there's that one player — what's his name — that's just about as young as you. He's still in school while he plays for the National Team here, but the Bulgarians wanted him bad enough to make all sorts of special exceptions. He's the Seeker, I think. Krum? Valya Krum? Viggo Krum? Some kind of V name."

Hermione stared at him, disbelieving that he somehow knew all of this about a foreign team, and he said defensively, "What? I like Quidditch!"

"Perhaps you can tell me about the players that I'll be treating, then, since I know nothing about them at all," she said dryly, standing up to stretch.

"I'm fairly certain the local paper here has a profile on each of the players in the back, considering how good they're doing in the qualifying rounds," Sirius offered.

She nodded, standing and stretching. "Perfect. Shall we be off, then?"

He looked at her blankly. "Off? To where?"

"The White Square, of course," she responded matter-of-factly. "It's not as if we've got enough food here to last forever, and I thought it would be fun to explore the Square. It's like their equivalent of Diagon Alley, you know."

Sirius's face shuttered, a hint of that dark look returning to his eyes. "Why don't you go without me? I feel a spot of fever coming on." He touched the back of his hand to his forehead. "Why, it might be the pox. I should go lie down and rest, shouldn't I? Great idea." He moved towards the stairs.

"Stop it right there, Sirius," she commanded, rolling her eyes at his dramatics. "You were fine just a moment ago, and besides, isn't it your duty to accompany me? You know. As my _guardian_ , which you are so proud of pointing out. I _could_ get into trouble on my own, you know, since it's my first time there. What if I got lost? Whatever would I do?" She blinked at him innocently.

He groaned and scraped a hand over his face, looking slightly ill at the thought. "Right." He breathed out once, and seemed to gather himself together. "Right," he said again. "Of course. Let's go to the White Square. It'll be a grand time."

She wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or her, and his sudden pallor alarmed her. Perhaps he _was_ getting ill. "We really don't have to go," she backtracked hastily. "I didn't mean to wrangle you into doing something you didn't want to do. I am awfully tired, and I'm sure we have enough food to last for the evening."

"No, no." He shook his head, a lock of golden hair falling into his eye before he thoughtlessly flicked it away. "You're right. We should go." He opened the door and held out his arm in a surprisingly courtly old-world gesture that delighted her. "Shall we?"

She stepped up next to him and threaded her arm through his, looking up at him. "We shall."

The summer days ran long in Sofia, and though it was half six, the sun still shone down on them brightly as they approached the Square through a long alley. She wondered why it was called the White Square, but when they turned a corner and the alley suddenly dumped them into a mammoth open area, her questions were answered.

"Oh, it's wonderful," she breathed, gripping Sirius's arm. Next to her, Sirius made a noncommittal noise, his free hand slipping into the pocket of his robe as the entire line of his body went tense.

Unlike Diagon Alley, the Square was, well, a square, with storefronts ringing the sides in extremely tall whitewashed stone buildings decorated with riots of flowers. The middle of the space buzzed with people talking at various pop-up stands, which were arranged in no particular order around a giant fountain with famous figures carved in marble.

It was chaotic and wonderful and lively, and she immediately loved it. There were so many places to explore. Was that stand over there selling books? She craned her head to get a better look.

"Yes, yes," Sirius said impatiently, "it's wonderful. It's brilliant. Let's just get on with getting some food and be done with it." He disentangled his arm from hers and strode off without a backwards look, shoulders stiff.

Hermione frowned at his retreating figure. He looked like someone going to battle, not someone preparing to go to the wizarding equivalent of Primark.

The thought struck her, and she bit her lip as she looked at his rapidly shrinking figure with an appraising gaze. He'd been living in Azkaban for twelve years, where his only company were either Dementors or other convicts, after which he'd been on the run from a society determined to track him down and kill him once and for all. She almost stumbled at the thought. A society that he was _still_ on the run from.

Put like that, it made sense that walking among so many people in such a public place would likely be terrifying. After all, all that stood between him and discovery was the Polyjuice Potion.

"Sirius!" she called after him, then cursed under her breath. His name wasn't Sirius any longer. He'd had that taken from him, too. "Magellan!" she called again, "Wait up a moment!"

He paused, butterscotch robes brushing against his loafers, and turned to look at her as she quickly caught up to him. The look in his vibrant blue eyes was something better suited to that of a trapped animal looking for a place to hide. Compassion rose within her in a swift wave.

"I can go myself," she offered quietly. "If you'd like, I mean. I can buy what you would like if you'll just tell me, and you can go home. I don't mind at all. Honest."

He shook his head. "I shouldn't," he said at last, after a long moment. "I'm your guardian. And besides," he added, when it looked like she was about to protest, "I need to get used to this again rather quickly. People. Noise. Life. That kind of thing. Especially since I'll need to be around it all on my," he raised an eyebrow significantly, "thing. I have to be normal."

She stifled a smile at the distaste in his voice. Who would have thought that someone like him, who had once been utterly at ease and even basked in the attentions of others, would become such a recluse? "We can do it quickly, then, and nip home. I made a list of what I need —"

"Of course you did." His lips turned up at the corners. "You strike me as the prepared sort."

"—and it should go rather quickly, I imagine." She looked longingly at the bookstand and resolved to come back soon. "I had thought about stopping by the Apothecary to pick up some ingredients, or at least some potions, but perhaps we can do that later."

"Whatever for?" Sirius asked quizzically. "Our _friend_ ," she assumed he meant Dumbledore, "is keeping you in supply for that potion I need, and you don't really need anything else, do you?" He suddenly looked concerned. "Are you ill?"

"It's not for me," she said crossly. "I wanted to make a few batches of practice potions that Madam Lazarov told me we'll be using frequently." It wasn't quite the whole truth, but she wasn't going to go telling Sirius that she was making healing potions for him in the case that he needed them. She wasn't sure he'd appreciate her assumption of his skills. And it wasn't that she thought he was a bad wizard — she knew he was highly skilled, considering she'd looked up his NEWT and OWL scores — but people tended to get injured on dangerous endeavors, which his mission surely qualified as.

Well, that and she really _did_ want to get some extra practice in. She wasn't _that_ good hearted.

He relaxed a fraction, though he still remained wary. "I see. Right, then, we'll pop into one right quick."

They made short work of obtaining the necessaries, with Sirius relaxing more and more as time went on and nobody tried to hex him. He even went so far as to stop at a stand and haggle for some fresh fruit, and while she took a bite of an orange, he slipped a fresh daisy into her hair. "A pretty flower for a pretty witch," he told her with a rakish grin.

"How many times did that work for you at Hogwarts?" she asked dryly, fingers coming up to touch its petals.

His grin widened. "Plenty enough."

The walk home was pleasant, the setting sun casting shadows on the road. Sirius had offered to apparate them home, but Hermione demurred, wishing to soak in the moment. It wasn't often that she found herself spending time in a foreign country on a beautiful day with surprisingly pleasant — and certainly complicated — company. They meandered along towards the house, and Hermione unlocked the door with a quick _Alohamora._ The door was spelled to both their wands, making it easy for them and nobody else to get access, though she didn't doubt the house was also heavily warded.

"I think I'll be out tomorrow for a bit, kitten," Sirius said as they dug into their meal, a simple dish that Hermione's mother had taught her the year before. Sirius professed himself a wretched cook, so it seemed most of that would be left up to her, which was fine, really, since she had to cook for herself anyways.

"So soon?" she asked in dismay.

He grimaced. "There's no time like the present. Besides, the longer I go without trying to track him down, the colder the trail gets and the less likely I am to find him. And I _will_ find him. No matter what I've got to do, or who I've got to work with." Something dangerous and perhaps not altogether sane flashed across his face. "I think I've got wind of someone I can talk to, and an idea of how to approach them.

Her throat went a bit dry, but she covered it up by taking a sip of water. "Right, then," she said briskly. "How long will you be gone for? Do you have rations? What about potions? How many doses of Polyjuice do you have? Actually, where are you even going?"

"I'll be around here, I think, unless I find out they've gone to another city. Even then it's just a quick apparition there and back, but I'll take a kit just in case that I've already prepared. I am an adult, you know. You needn't fuss so much over me."

Stung, she drew back. "Excuse me for caring, then," she said frostily.

He rolled his eyes. "That's not what I meant, poppet. I'm not used to all the fussing, not anymore, but it is...nice...to know that you care."

"You're Harry's godfather! Of course I care! And besides, you've been rather nice to me, at least today." Carefully, she touched her finger against the soft petals of the flower still tucked against her ear. Without looking at him, she quietly continued, "And about...well. You know."

There was a long pause, and then Sirius sniffed haughtily. "I am wonderful, I know, I know. No need to tell me." He grew serious and patted her hand. "I do take my responsibilities seriously, you know. We're in this together, you and I, and I'm grateful for your help. Don't think I don't know who is brewing my Polyjuice for me once I run out. It's a damned hard potion to make in the first place, and you're doing it on top of your apprenticeship."

His acknowledgement made her flush. Harry and Ron didn't often thank her—sometimes they even resented her for her help. "Of course," she replied simply. "I want to help you like you tried to help me. Besides, Pettigrew must be stopped. Who knows what that — that — that _rat_ is up to. He's already done enough damage."

"Agreed. And that's why I'm leaving tomorrow. I don't want to tell you where I'm going," he hedged, "but I'll be in Bulgaria, have no fear about that. Peter had roots here, on his mother's side," he added. "It's more of a distant cousin twice removed type thing, but it's enough to make me look. What makes it worse is that Bulgaria had some fairly strong ties with Grindelwald, and there's still enough of a leftover Dark presence here that Peter could easily find his way into unsavory company that could do a lot of damage."

She had wondered why Sirius would want to start looking in Bulgaria rather than somewhere closer to home, but this information helped it click into place. No wonder he'd want to begin here.

Suddenly, she yawned uncontrollably, and Sirius chuckled from his seat across the little kitchen table. "You look knackered. Run off to bed, and I'll see you in the morning."

"But we're not finished talking," she protested around a second, longer yawn.

"I think we are," he replied firmly. "Go on, then. Get."

She tried a baleful look, but his slightly entertained expression indicated it fell rather more flat than she'd thought. Reluctantly, she pushed back her chair. "I need to do the dishes first, at least," she murmured, beginning to gather them.

"I'll do them. It's the least I can do after you cooked for me." Yet again he surprised her, his thoughtfulness making her reassess his character. She was beginning to see how James, Lily, Remus, and even Peter had wanted him for a friend. He was often thoughtful and kind, but it all was overlaid by the new Sirius Black, someone dark and somehow fragmented.

Tiredly, she smiled at him. "That sounds wonderful. I'll see you for breakfast, then?"

He nodded, and she left Sirius behind doing the dishes as she fell into bed, almost instantly asleep.

That night, she woke to a sharp cry. Bolting upright at the first noises, she made her way almost to his door when they abruptly stopped. Moments later, his door swung open and she jumped as his haggard, sweaty face appeared.

"Um — I heard — do you —"

"Go back to sleep." He brushed by her, his last words drifting on the air behind him. "I don't need help from little kittens like you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! For those of you who wished for more Sirius love, here we are :) Next, chapter, we check in on Viktor and see what he's doing. 
> 
> Please drop me a line and tell me what you think!


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday :) I hope you all had a restful weekend and enjoy this chapter. Please review and let me know what you think!
> 
> Oh, and I hit 90K over the weekend for this fic. If I felt good hitting that, I wonder what 100K will feel like....pretty good, I imagine? Onwards and upwards!

The wind bit into his face as Viktor hunched forward, trying to eke as much speed out of his broom as possible. The practice match had been going on for almost four hours, which meant that he was at the edge of his window of time to catch the snitch. QWC qualifying matches were limited to four hours (although one would think they could last an entire day and night without pause if one listened only to Islov), and if he didn't catch the snitch before then they would have to rely on scored points only.

As far as he was concerned, there was no reason that he shouldn't be able to catch the snitch within that window of time, regardless of the fact that traditional matches didn't have a time limit. He currently held one of the top ten records for fastest catch, and he'd only officially been playing professional Quidditch since the qualifiers started a year and a half ago.

"Faster, faster," he urged his broom, racing after the glint of gold racing ahead of him. The broom seemed to listen to him, and he pulled alongside the small ball. It was too far for him to lean over and grab, but if he could hook around the handle and then lunge, it would be just enough.

Quickly, he adjusted his position on the broom, making sure his feet were locked around the opposite ankle, and then took a deep breath. In an explosion of motion and muscle, he lunged towards the snitch. His hand closed around sun-warmed metal, and then he was hanging from his broom only by his feet, his weight pulling painfully at his joints. He looked down at the players so far beneath him and gave a yell, the hand holding the snitch outstretched towards them victoriously. Their cheers echoed in his ears and he grinned almost ferally before beginning to pull himself up slowly and laboriously towards his handle.

What felt like hours later, he was safely back on his broom, seated firmly on the built-in cushion of air. His breath whooshed out of him in one long exhale, and he wiped at his face with his free hand. Coming back from the Izenbard Lunge was always excruciating and left him feeling like a limp washcloth. His legs positively ached, but he felt like he could do anything right now, what with the snitch secured.

"You are an absolute madman, and I mean that in the best way," Vasily Dimitrov told him admiringly as he met up with the rest of the team over the pitch.

Clara slapped him on the back, the hit reverberating through his entire torso. "You crazy fool," she laughed. "The things you do on that broom. I don't know how you do it."

He grinned at them both. "I may be a fool," he parroted Pyotr from a few days ago, "but I am a fool that can fly, _da_?"

"Enough celebration," Islov reprimanded them sharply. "Krum, good job with the snitch - though I would prefer you try _not_ to kill yourself before we go head-to-head with the Moroccans. We've talked about this. Don't do the Izenbard unless absolutely necessary. It's too dangerous to mess around with."

This was coming from the same man who had told Viktor to perform twenty Wronski Feints, an equally dangerous move, the day before. "Yes sir," Viktor replied dutifully.

"Levksi, Dimitrov, Ivanova," he addressed the Chasers, "good work, but I expect to see more teamwork. Minkov," the reserve Keeper they'd played against in the scrimmage, "nearly handed your arses to you several times. You need to keep each other in line of sight better. I want you all to spend two hours doing drills tomorrow flying the Quaffle up and down the field. Your defensive tactics were sound, but you can improve."

They nodded at his comments, and Viktor watched them quietly begin to compare their own notes as Islov moved on to critiquing the Beaters, and last, Zograf. The sweat on his skin dried as he cooled down, and he was thankful when Islov dismissed them for the day, ready for a shower.

Quickly, he gathered his things. He was having dinner with his family tonight, so he made sure to clean rapidly but thoroughly, donning a pair of black trousers, a loose linen shirt that opened at the throat in a thin vee, and semi-formal robes. His parents maintained a more traditional household, and he would not disrespect them by showing up improperly attired.

He Apparated from the players' lounge directly to the estate, the ancestral grounds' wards attuned to his magical signature, and appeared in the front lawns of his parents' house with a crack. He was greeted by the familiar sight of sprawling grounds, rich with a riot of flowers and lush with verdant greenery.

"Vitya!" Milena Krum's voice spanned the lawn and soared over the bubbling trio of fountains. He could see her familiar figure, small and bright, against the double doors.

His lips curved up in a smile. " _Maika_ ," he returned, and hurried over. He stopped in front of her, clicked his heels once, and kissed her hand, as Pureblood etiquette dictated, before sweeping her off her feet and into a careful, yet strong hug.

" _Prestani_ ," she laughed. "Put me down, you silly boy." He did so, making sure she was steady on her feet, and obediently bent over so she could push a stray piece of hair off his forehead. "How is my boy doing?" she asked. "Did you eat lunch today? I know you forget sometimes."

He groaned dramatically. "Mother, you know I do not forget to eat. Stop treating me as if I were still hiding in your skirts."

"You know how I worry, Vitya." She looked up at him, almond eyes laughing. "Come, come. Kosta is here already, and he wishes to see you."

She moved inside, wrapped her hand around his arm, and they progressed through the warm foyer carefully. He glanced down at her, taking in the dull sheen of her hair, styled in a chignon, and the paleness of her skin. She seemed in good spirits, and her health had not noticeably declined since the last time he saw her, but worry settled in his gut. He would ask Kosta how she was doing, since he was able to spend more time with her.

Father likely wouldn't know, not that he would be here to ask, and he wouldn't care.

"Kosta? Kosta!" she called imperiously, and moments later, his older brother appeared, his beautiful Russian wife, Svetlana, hanging off his arm. He and Viktor looked much the same, Viktor knew, with similar builds and dark hair and eyes. Kosta, however, was never able to forget his place in society, and it showed in his elegant mannerisms and occasionally aloof personality. Where Viktor fumbled over words, Kosta spun phrases of silk; where Viktor tripped over his feet, Kosta glided. Where Viktor caught the snitch, Kosta crushed his business opponents.

Despite their differences, they still loved each other, in some distant, nebulous way that harkened back to the days where they played Quidditch together over the back gardens, laughing at each other as they tried to outdo each other by performing more and more ridiculous tricks. His brother was, after all, the one who had taught Viktor how to fly. As time passed, though, Kosta had drawn away, feet staying firmly planted on the ground as he spent his time at Durmstrang and grew into his role as the family heir while Viktor, too young to follow him, had flown further and further away into the clouds.

"Hello, brother." Viktor gave a shallow bow.

Kosta nodded in return. "Viktor."

Svetlana took a step forward, extending a pale hand, and purred, "Hello, Viktor."

"Good evening, Svetlana." Sweeping her perfectly shaped hand into his own, he kissed it before dropping it and stepping away. He wished that she would not eye him as she did, like he was so much a piece of meat; it reminded him of his more avaricious female fans, but it was made magnitudes worse because she was his sister-in-law. By all rights, she _shouldn't_ be looking at him that way.

Polite niceties observed, they stood in the foyer, silent for a moment. "How is training going?" Kosta asked at last. "Your catch against the Spaniards was excellent."

"Thank you," Viktor replied. "We are doing well. Islov is pushing us hard, as he should, to make us better. The Moroccans are ranked far below us, though, so they shouldn't pose too much of a challenge." He expected they would take them in a few hours, especially if he could catch the snitch quickly.

"I heard that Al-Azm has been practicing his own Wronski Feint," Kosta noted.

Milena's grip on Viktor's arm tightened as she proudly responded, "Nobody is as good at it as my Vitya is."

Coolly, Kosta replied,"I didn't say Al-Azm was as good as Viktor — I simply said he's been practicing it."

Viktor nodded. "I've heard about it. It should be fine — I've been practicing pulling up at the last second when doing my own practicing, so even if he fools me I should be able to make it in time and follow him out of the break." He thought wryly of yesterday's practice and how his ability to hurtle towards the ground at truly breathtaking speeds until the last possible moment had marginally improved. It was only his stomach that had suffered so.

"That's good, that's very good," Kosta said. "I trust the Firebolts are treating you better than the Cleansweeps?" The family business, which was one of the team sponsors, had helped with purchasing brooms for the team.

This time, Viktor's smile was genuine. " _Da_ ," he agreed enthusiastically. "They go so incredibly fast, and the turning radius is amazing. It's much more responsive than the Cleansweeps were, which let me take my Wronskis to the next level. In the past, I had to pull up sooner because the Cleansweeps took longer to respond, and now it feels as though the broom knows what I'm thinking almost before I do it."

Kosta broke out into a true smile at Viktor's enthusiasm, the first one Viktor had seen in a long time. His brother didn't smile very much these days, he thought, perhaps because he was so busy trying to fill the shoes that their father expected and required him to. "That's good, that's good. I haven't had a chance to try one out myself, you know." His gaze flicked to Svetlana. "I've been rather occupied."

"We've just been attending so many outings," Svetlana added, her nails digging into Kosta's arm. "You know how it is — so many invitations, not enough time! It's so demanding to be one of the _Svyato_ , but you would know that, wouldn't you Viktor?"

He managed to quell the urge to reply that yes, he obviously would, since he, like Kosta, was Pureblood. "The season is tiring," he acknowledged, but also refrained from mentioning how bloody grateful he was not to be making the rounds.

Svetlana extended a hand, the diamond bracelet hanging off her wrist glinting in the light. "You should join us," she suggested, red mouth curved invitingly. "You would be so very welcome." Her tone made it clear in more ways than one, and Viktor couldn't help his mouth from curling in distaste. Why his brother had married this vapid social-climber was beyond him. Kosta was of a calibre far beyond her.

"I'm afraid I simply don't have the time," he responded politely, sticking his hands in his pockets. "What with Quidditch and all, and I'm trying to do some extra revision over the summer." And now that TriWizard Cup, which he needed to research, too.

Milena reached up and patted his cheek. "You are so serious about everything, Viktor. I worry that you cannot relax and simply be the boy you are."

He had left boyhood behind long ago, somewhere between casting his first Dark curses in a Durmstrang classroom and becoming a household name, but he wasn't about to tell his mother that. Let her believe what she wanted.

Catching her hand, he cupped it to his face. "I am fine, _maika_ ," he reassured her. "Now, shall we eat?"

The meal was pleasant, the conversation dominated by discussion of the annual Harvest Blessing, a festival that took place on Krum lands that both celebrated the land and prepared and blessed it for the autumn to come. As the second son, Viktor would be in charge of the planning and execution of the festival once he was deemed ready to take over the reins. For now, he was learning his duties under the watchful eye of his mother and the senior Steward, Nevena, who had been overseeing such things for decades.

"We have almost finished making the preparations," he assured his mother and Kosta. "The supplies have been ordered and I have begun the base preparations with Nevena."

Kosta sipped his wine and set the glass down. "Have you sent them to her for review?"

He nodded, resisting the urge to shift in his seat. "The Charms portion was not too difficult, although the combination with the runes we decided upon for the upcoming year was a bit tricky. Some of them, such as _ingwuz_ , had their effects offset slightly by the layering of the traditional Charms, and the binding rite on top of that made it more difficult to ensure their efficacy. However, I consulted some of the Masters and they provided some alternatives that I want to show Nevena."

His mother frowned. "The _ingwuz_ rune was problematic?"

"That, and _berkana_ ," he confirmed.

"Hm." Lightly, she tapped her chin in thought. "Perhaps if you reorder the two and separate their placement with that of _eihwaz_? That way, the runic inscription will be _ingwuz_ for fertility, _eihwaz_ for defense of the land and protection of the elements, and _berkana_ for for growth and rebirth."

He considered it, his mind clicking through the probabilities, and said slowly, "I think that could work. It could be that having such a focus on growth may be unbalancing the entire thing."

"I trust you'll make it work," Kosta said briskly. "The drought last year was difficult for us all, the business included." While the Krums, by necessity, had to get the majority of their potions ingredients for the company elsewhere, they were a large producer of many valued ingredients. The decrease in product had not only hurt the business, as Kosta mentioned, but also the tenants, which Viktor felt more pressing. The business, and the family by proxy, could survive for quite some time without the income, but the people they relied on to produce and nature the plants were not as fortunate, and he had seen the effects of the bad season with his own eyes.

"I know." Methodically, he tore the piece of bread in his hands into tiny pieces. "I really believe that the Blessing this year will help ensure a return to normalcy. Nevena told me she will get back to me tomorrow."

Kosta spared the topic no more thought, deeming it closed by Viktor's reassurance, and the conversation moved on, though Viktor remained weighed down by the thoughts of Milena's suggestions regarding the runes. By the end of dinner, he had thought more on the topic and decided to send Nevena an owl with the revised inscription describing the changes and the potential benefit. It would be interesting to see her thoughts, and they did not have much time to dally over the minute points much longer. The festival was in a month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> Maika = mother
> 
> Prestani = stop it
> 
> Svyato = hallowed. Here it is used as the equivalent to the Sacred 28.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been some commentary about pacing, and I wanted you to know: I anticipate this story being extremely, extremely long. I'm at about 100K and have not wrapped up the summer yet. I am just now thinking about fourth year, which is going to be nuts. Please pray for me: Snape and Draco Malfoy have taken over my life :) So if this story seems slow, that is because I am building up characters to last for years, and the resulting words to cover that..
> 
> That being said, this is the last of what I consider the establishing chapters, and I hope you enjoy the next chapter - I was too excited to wait until Monday to post, so there is a double post tonight.

It had been two days since Sirius left the house to "go talk to some acquaintances", and it felt emptier than ever. It was strange living on her own, she reflected, having never done so before. Even before she started Hogwarts, her parents had always left her with a nanny, and then once she started there she had always shared a room with the other girls in her year. Here she was, though, for all intents and purposes living alone at fifteen in a foreign country.

She stifled a sudden laugh at the thought. It wasn't as if it were a particularly new occurrence; it was just in a new country.

It wasn't that she didn't like living alone — so far, she was rather fond of it, actually. She was able to do what she wanted when she wanted, and there was no Lavendar or Parvati to hiss at her to dim her _Lumos_ when she stayed up late reading or working. Her collection of books were beginning to get scattered throughout the rooms she frequented, a small stack on the kitchen table, another in the living room, one by her bedside table, and, of course, her copy of _Moste Potente Potions_ in the basement room she had converted into a laboratory to brew Sirius's batches of Polyjuice in. It took a month to make, and his stores would cover him in that period, but only just, so she had begun her work the day she had arrived.

Her mornings were quickly taking on the air of a routine, where she woke up, showered, made some eggs and toast with jam, and reviewed her notes from the day before while she ate. She quickly levitated her dishes to the sink, set them to rinsing, and then grabbed her official staff robes, which Madam Lazarov had given her yesterday.

They were the same burgundy red as the robes she had won the first day but the cut was different, with narrower sleeves at the wrist than was traditional and a high neckline. The hemline was a bit higher than she was used to as well, hitting only her ankles rather than draping to the floor, but Lazarov had merely arched a brow and said, "It wouldn't do to trip on your robes when walking backwards and dropping the wizard you were levitating, would it?" That made perfect sense, really, and she didn't ask any more questions, noting the team's logo on the front breast pocket and an even larger version on the back, over where her name was spelled in large black letters with a white border. It took her breath away to see it there in full - GRANGER — because it made her official. She belonged here, now. She was part of the team, and she could prove it.

Donning these robes and doing up the buttons to the throat almost felt better than the first time she put on her Hogwarts robes. Almost.

Lazarov gave her a critical once over and nodded sharply in approval. "I trust you're prepared to work today?"

"I am," Hermione responded in what was rapidly becoming their standard greeting, rather than something more cordial like, _Good morning_ or _Fine weather today, don't you think?_ Lazarov's high expectations were almost bolstering, however; Hermione wasn't one to shrink from a challenge but rather rise to it, and the higher the bar, the more she reached for excellence.

"While I have spent the last several days putting you through preliminary evaluations, today begins the first real day of your apprenticeship. Anywhere between two days before and up to the day of a game, the players come in for a routine wellness check to ensure that they are in peak physical condition. Typically, the checks go rather fast, as I am extremely well-versed in each athlete's medical history, and we have a good rapport. Today, and during each medical check in the future, I expect you to be present during each check."

She paused for a moment, mouth pursed, and fixed a gimlet look on Hermione. "You do understand that anything you see or hear cannot be discussed with anybody, even a friend and especially a reporter, no matter how much they offer you."

Hermione drew back, offended. "I would never do such a thing!" she replied hotly. "It's against the Healer's Oath! While I might be just an apprentice, I would never violate someone's trust that way." She thought of how Madam Pomfrey had treated her more than once for magical and physical exhaustion last year, never saying a word even to Dumbledore as she had grown more and more strung out, trying to live too many lives at once. "It would be a betrayal to them and to the profession."

"Even though they're famous?" Lazarov asked, tapping her foot. "Even though you could sell secrets you see here and make a pretty sum?"

"They're not gods," Hermione responded, exasperated. "They're just people who can fly really fast on brooms and do impossible things."

Lazarov's eyebrows shot up almost into her hairline, and she gave Hermione that same thoughtfully appraising look as she had that first day, where it seemed like she might actually have found something in Hermione worth her approval. "We shall see if your actions match your words, Miss Granger. For now, just remember that Oath you seem to take so seriously - and the paperwork you signed your first morning before you arrived in my infirmary." Like she could forget the parchment that spelled aeons of legal trouble and all sorts of unpleasant magical backlash if she broke the non-disclosure.

"I'm here to learn," Hermione said firmly, "not sell secrets. If I can be best friends with Harry Potter and not say anything about him to anyone, you can be certain that I wouldn't say anything about the players, either."

Aside from a marginal widening of the eyes at Harry's name, Lazarov remained unmoved. "We shall see," she repeated. "Now, I want you to review the main player's files before they come in. Typically they come in by position, for whatever reason." She summoned a stack of files from her office, each neatly organized in a burgundy folder and tied shut with a black string, and handed them to Hermione. "The Chasers come in first, followed by the Beaters, then Keeper, and finally the Seeker. The files are arranged in that order, so don't make a mess and shuffle them up. They will likely come after lunch, or when Islov, that autocratic bastard, releases them, at which point I will talk with them one on one. You will accompany me, but I expect you to be silent and observe. The time for questions will come afterwards. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Madam." She looked at the files, already planning on how to best take notes on them. Should she write down only highlights, or would it be best to go through in more exacting detail? Perhaps highlights first, then a new copy of notes with a more fleshed out outline later. She didn't know how long she would have the files, after all, and it was more important to get the gist of all of them than the full scope of some of them.

"I will give you approximately one hour," her mentor said, and while Hermione gasped in dismay, magnanimously added, "You may use my office."

Nodding, she hurried into Madam Lazarov's office, barely taking in the airy yet surprisingly colorful and homey space, and took a seat at the desk. Quickly, she placed the files to one side and grabbed the topmost one, undoing the binding and opening it.

"Alright. First up, Clara Ivanova," she muttered to herself, looking at a picture of a muscular woman with long chestnut hair braided over her ears that joined into one longer braid that was flipped over a shoulder. She grinned mischievously as she jogged a Quaffle in one hand and winked. She was 26 and in fairly good health, Hermione quickly discovered, though she had fractured her pelvis and stayed in the infirmary earlier in the year in February. She had been released after a week in good health, though Lazarov noted 'special care with scan over PA' in a spare piece of parchment stuck to the inside of the folder with a sticking charm.

Vasily Dimitrov looked more suited to swimming than to Chasing, with a long, lean build and broad shoulders. It appeared he was recovering from the ague, which he had had last week - "PU and SP to bolster strength; recommend benching if not recovered," Lazarov's comment read. Alexei Levski, the last Chaser, seemed more intense than the other two and somehow reminded her of a wolverine, perhaps because of his liquid eyes, which gazed out at her over a serious face. He had broken a leg after being hit by a Bludger in a game against Norway, and suffered broken fingers on his hand ("left, all fingers") in a subsequent game after that.

She paused for a moment and shook out her hand, which had begun cramping as she frantically wrote, before bending her head and returning to the task at hand.

Both Beaters, Ivan Volkov and Pyotr Vulchanov, appeared to be heavy drinkers. Volkov had been injured more recently than Vulchanov, having recently been released from the infirmary 5 June after suffering four broken ribs. Vulchanov did not appear to have any major recent injuries, although Lazarov had diagrammed a large, deep scar on his upper right shoulder that was apparently the result of a "childhood accident". She wasn't sure what kind of incident would cause a scar like that, but tamped down her curiosity. The Keeper, Lev Zograf, also had a note about liver damage, though his was more substantive than Volkov or Vulchanov, and Lazarov noted to check his left knee, which he had injured the muscles and ligaments of three separate times in the past season alone.

She stopped short when she opened the last file and a familiar face with an equally familiar frown peered out at her. "Hello, Viktor Krum," she murmured. The figure in the photo crossed his arms seemingly in response. His nose looked as if it had been broken before — twice, the notes read - and he had intense eyes that were made all the more penetrating by the thick brows above them. He was big, too, broader and taller than a typical Seeker. She thought of Harry and even Malfoy with their slighter builds and knew that should Krum stand next to them, he would make them look positively scrawny.

"Have I got a surprise for you," she told his photo, tapping it with a finger. "Wonder what you'll think when your most favorite fan shows up to help with your physical, hm?" Her mouth curved despite herself, and she skimmed his file. He was younger than the others by a large margin, the next youngest on the team twenty two to Krum's seventeen — although Viktor, she noted, would turn eighteen in July. He had pulled a muscle in his abdomen doing some kind of maneuver (what a Havarsham Spiral was, she didn't know) in practice on June 9, but Lazarov had written "RESOLVED" next to it. Krum seemed relatively lucky, with fewer injuries than the others, although it could be that he was simply younger or that Seekers weren't as prone to injuries as other positions. At the end of the file, Lazarov had scrawled in slanted, narrow script, "Underpronation increases susceptibility of muscular injuries in legs and feet; recent exposure (last 12 mo.) to Dark Curses may have lasting effect".

She had just put her quill down when Madam Lazarov came in, her tall, angular figure blocking the doorway. "The Chasers have come early, it seems," she told her, and then gave a small smile. "They are curious about you."

"Me?" Hermione asked, surprised.

The Healer nodded. "They want to know about the English girl that's so far from home."

"I'm just - I'm just an apprentice," she stuttered, a bit flummoxed at the attention. "That's all."

Lazarov slanted her a sly look. "Is it, though?"

Hermione swallowed as the image of her secret laboratory underneath the house popped into her mind, and Lazarov smirked. "Come along, then, _malko momiche_ ," she instructed, sweeping out much as she had swept in. "It is time to begin."

Hermione followed her out of the room and into the infirmary proper, the files neatly bundled under one arm. Madam Lazarov had vanished the large floor-to-ceiling window that served as their entrance onto the field. The window was one way, so the Healers could see out but none could see in, and a mere incantative phrase made the glass vanish so they could transport a stretcher onto the field and back with ease.

The three Chasers stood on the lip of the infirmary floor where the tile met grass, their gazes unabashedly curious as they stared at Hermione. She shifted under the weight of their gaze but then straightened up, determined to face things head on.

"Hello!" the lone woman of the group, presumably Clara, greeted cheerfully, stepping forward and kissing Hermione on the cheek. Unused to such informal greetings, Hermione stiffened, but the exchange happened so quickly that Clara didn't notice. "I'm Clara, one of the Chasers for the team. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger. Have you been settled in well?"

"I — well, yes," she replied, taken aback but heartened. "Bulgaria is so beautiful, and I'm rather enjoying my time here, though I haven't been here long."

Clara beamed. "Good, good," she nodded enthusiastically. "And Krasmira? Has she been looming over you and saying things mysteriously?"

Hermione felt her face go red as she stammered out a response, and Clara positively cackled. "She _has_ , hasn't she? Kras, I _told_ you to stop doing that. Nobody's ever going to like you if you keep saying cryptic statements and criticizing them."

"I will thank you to refrain from sullying my teaching methods," Krasmira told the Chaser dryly. "She is _my_ mentee."

"Oh posh!" Clara waved Madam Lazarov's statement away. "She's too serious by half, much like our dear old Vikky, who you'll meet soon. Don't be afraid to talk back to her — she likes it, but she won't admit it."

She could never imagine talking back to a professor like that, but Alexei, who flanked Vasily Dimitrov's right, was giving a subtle nod, those liquid eyes of his she had noticed earlier filled with quiet mischief. Perhaps not a wolverine, she thought, but more of a fox instead.

"Miss Granger," Vasily Dimitrov, the one with the swimmer's body, stepped forward and greeted her, taking her hand and kissing the back of it as he bowed. "I am very pleased to meet you. Welcome to Bulgaria."

"Thank you," she replied faintly, eyes wide at his chivalrous, old-world gesture. If Lavender or Parvati had been in her place, she was fairly certain they would have either swooned or squealed uncontrollably.

Alexei repeated Vasily's gesture and words, though he clicked his heels afterwards. "It is quite a pleasure to be able to put a name to the face," he mentioned, flicking an amused look at Clara. "I feel as though I've been hearing about you for weeks rather than days, what with the amount of buzz you've generated among the team. One would think you were a celebrity."

Hermione laughed a little uncomfortably and looked down at her feet for a brief moment before replying, "I'm not a celebrity. I'm just here to learn from Madam Lazarov." And help Sirius hunt down a madman, but that wasn't really something one mentioned in an introductory conversation. Or ever.

Alexei feigned brokenheartedness, placing a hand over his chest. "What about Quidditch? Are we to be pushed aside so easily?"

The question, though asked in jest, had an underlying seriousness to it. Was she simply here to fawn over them? Obviously not. "Of course not," she responded archly, feeling daring. "However would I get patients to practice on otherwise?"

Clara burst into laughter, slapping Alexei on the back. "She got you there!" she said between chuckles, "though that comment is better suited to Pyotr — the idiot almost killed himself yesterday trying to get in here to get a look at you." She rolled her eyes so hard Hermione was half-surprised they didn't fall out of her head.

Madam Lazarov sighed and pinched the brow of her nose in an uncommon display of exasperation. "I am going to wring his neck when he comes in here."

Clara shot Hermione a conspiratorial look. "Take pictures?"

"Do not." Madam Lazarov smoothly countered Clara's request. "Now, enough foolishness from all of you. Sometimes I think you all are a pack of wild beasts rather than Quidditch stars. Clara." She motioned towards one of the curtained off beds. "You first. You know the drill."

"Yes, _Madam Lazarov,_ " Clara intoned, giving a mock curtsey.

"Now!" The Healer pointed, patience clearly spent, and Clara chuckled again as she complied. "And you two!" She turned her gaze on the remaining players.

The two celebrities, who had been giving each other meaningful looks about who knew precisely what, stilled and slowly turned their heads, their expressions equally guilty as if they had been caught in the act of a prank. "Yes, Madam?" Alexei said meekly.

"Stay here. And no funny business. I'll know." She narrowed her eyes.

Vasily nodded solemnly. "I will make sure to babysit him well, Madam," he promised. Next to him, Alexei began protesting, and it was with a smile on her face that Hermione began her first set of routine exams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't read the beginning AN, read this: THERE IS A DOUBLE POST TONIGHT. Lol   
> Enjoy the next chapter!


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: If you are reading this on May 8, this is the second update of the evening. You have missed a chapter! Go back and read Ch. 7 first :)

Viktor was mulling over Nevana's response to the runic inscription when he realized this preoccupation had caused him to miss something that the rest of the team was attempting to discuss without drawing Islov's notice. It wasn't until Pyotr sent him a significant look, including a crazy eyebrow waggle and unintelligibly mouthed words, that Viktor remembered that today's pre-match physical wasn't just any normal physical — it was a physical with The Girl.

That was how he had started thinking of her, after all: Clara, Pyotr, Alexei, and even Vasily had spoken of her with varying levels of approval, squealing (Clara), and/or innuendo (Pyotr). The reactions from the team as they came out of the infirmary and rejoined practice made him curious to see her. It was like the celebrities had become the fans of one inconsequential girl.

It made him intensely curious, so when it was his turn he was more willing than usual.

Lev Zograf passed him on his way out. "Nice girl. Smart," was all the taciturn Keeper said.

Him, too? Viktor narrowed his eyes. They'd have to either canonize her soon, given the way they were talking, or fire her to get the players more focused on what they were there to do: play Quidditch.

He saw The Girl as soon as he walked in. Her back was to him, her official robes spelling out her name in English before flashing to Cyrillic. Hermione Granger. What an impossible name to be saddled with, he thought, and likely even more impossible to say. It was so...English. He would surely stumble if asked to say it aloud.

She was very diminutive for someone with such an...impressive name; she would barely come to his shoulders, he noted, and her hair was a particular shade of brown that he was hard-pressed to describe, the entire mass pulled back into a braid with a few rebellious curls springing free.

Something about it struck a chord. He had seen her, and that striking hair in particular, before, but where?

And then she turned around, and he felt scalding heat, rapidly followed by freezing cold, run down the entire length of his body. Any lingering thoughts of rune fled his mind as he breathed in shock and disbelief, "You."

She gave a tight-lipped smile and the same little wave she had given him by the river. "Yes," she said in that strangely accented Bulgarian, which he now knew to be English. "It's me. Hello, Mr, Krum."

Krasmira looked between the two of them with an arched brow but said nothing, a speculative gleam in those sharp eyes of hers. She had been looking at The Girl — Miss Granger — with appraising eyes, likely to see her reaction to him, Viktor assumed, but because of his reaction to her, she had switched focus, like a shark smelling blood in the water.

And Merlin help him, he was likely as not going to give it to her, given his propensity to lose his capacity for intelligent speech when truly flustered, which thankfully, happened rarely.

Unfortunately, this was one of those times. "You're not a fan," he said rather stupidly, pointing out the obvious.

Crisply, she nodded. "Indeed, not."

Oh, Merlin. He felt as though he were about to expire from sheer embarrassment. "I am...I thought…"

She lifted and dropped her shoulders in a small shrug, her expression not unkind but not precisely nonjudgmental, either. "I suppose I can see why you were confused," she commented, one eyebrow arched, "what with the burgundy robes and all, but next time you run across someone minding their own business, perhaps don't jump to conclusions, hm?"

He nodded several times, feeling his throat tighten. Merlin's balls but he was a fool. The accent alone should have tipped him off, not to mention she had literally been sitting there reading a book and eating a sandwich. "I apologize," he said stiffly, and gave a regimental bow, his arms straight at his sides as he bent at the waist before clicking his heels together. "It was simply that — and the river — you looked -—" he fumbled, not even knowing what to say. He could almost feel his mother's wrath bearing down on him from home, echoes of 'Krums are always, always polite, Viktor!' ringing in his ears.

"I take it you know each other?" Madam Lazarov said after watching a dull flush creep up his face with an arched brow.

"Yes." The girl turned to face her master. "We had the...pleasure of meeting each other by the river on my first day during the lunch break. It seemed we both had the brilliant idea of going there to relax, but he mistook me for a fan and reprimanded me for trespassing."

Krasmira's eyes widened marginally, but she refrained from making one of her whiplike comments that would have drawn blood. He stifled a groan, knowing that if she was refraining now, he would certainly be getting an earful from everyone else she was surely going to tell as soon as possible. Damn harpy, he thought uncharitably. He could feel his ears burning in embarrassment.

"I see," she said in a significant tone a long moment later, turning absolutely judgmental eyes on him. "Well, then, l suppose it must please you to know that this is not a fan but my assistant, Miss Granger. She will be assisting me in today's physical and all future ones as well."

He stepped forward, took her hand, and bowed over it. "It is a pleasure to formally meet you, Miss Granger," he murmured. "I look forward to working with you."

"And I, you," she returned with a small smile. "Now that we properly know each other."

"Yes, well," he coughed, "I suppose I should strip?"

Her eyes widened, and he realized how that sounded. "I meant - I meant for the exam! Strip for the exam!" He cleared his throat uncomfortably and reached up to rub at his neck.

Krasmira was openly smirking by this time, and she motioned for him to get on with it. Jerkily, he pulled his Quidditch robes off over his head and then the thin shirt underneath, folding both out of habit before placing them on the bed and sitting next to them, his back slightly hunched and hands fisted in his lap. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of her eyes on him. He wasn't normally prone to bouts of self-consciousness, but after the way they had gotten off on such awkward footing, and how she looked at him, with those cool, knowing eyes, he couldn't help it.

"What's first?" Krasmira asked Miss Granger.

"A basic scan to achieve a baseline reading of the entire system," she replied promptly. "It will detect any abnormalities and display synchronous readings for as long as the spell is maintained."

The Healer nodded. "Demonstrate the wandwork, if you please, then once I give approval, cast it."

Miss Granger bit her lip for a brief moment, the only sign of nerves he had seen from her thus far, then cast the spell on him a moment later after displaying what he assumed - and hoped - was flawless wandwork.

"Maintain it while I ask the battery of questions," Krasmira instructed, and Miss Granger nodded, looking alert despite her split attention, although her skin between her brows furrowed slightly in concentration.

Quickly, Kramira ran down the familiar list of questions he could almost answer in his sleep. Any new injuries? No. Anything to report? No. How was his energy? Fine. Was the abdominal tear giving him any issues? No, although he did feel a slight bit weaker on the left, where the regrown muscle was, than on his right.

Krasmira nodded. "It's to be expected, given that the potion and spellwork can only do so much. The body is having to stimulate the rest of the growth itself, but it should mostly have finished by now." She made him lie down and cast a quick spell over his abdomen, looking critically at the readings.

"It appears mostly normal, although the growth isn't as far along as I would like. Abdominal muscle regrowth is fairly complicated due to how many things each muscle is attached to; it takes time to rebuild those connections not only to other muscles but also to other things such as ligaments. I'm going to give you another Strengthening potion to take before bed tonight and do some quick work to encourage the muscle to grow. Do you have any questions? Does that make sense to you?"

He nodded. "I truly don't think it's a big deal, but with the game tomorrow…I don't want to endanger the game simply because of my pride."

Krasmira gave him a rare look of approval. "Good boy," she said approvingly. "Now, I'll be right back - the Potion's in the back room. Oh, and Miss Granger?" she looked at her apprentice. "Keep the spell up."

The furrow between her brow deepening slightly, Hermione replied, "Yes, Madam."

Krasmira disappeared between the curtains, leaving the two of them alone. There was an extended silence as he looked down at his hands and she stood there. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his readings from the scan floating next to him.

He looked up at her, his curiosity overriding his natural reticence. "Is it hard?"

"Hm?" He tilted his head at the readings. "Ah. It's not too hard," she replied after a moment of consideration. "Only that it takes some of my attention. The spell itself isn't particularly draining or difficult — it's only the multitasking that I would have to do while maintaining it that worries me. I think that's why she's getting me used to doing it now, so it becomes second nature."

He wasn't an expert on Healing spells, but he knew most of them used a fair amount of magic at any one time. To be expected to maintain one while preparing and casting others was impressive, indeed, especially since she was young and hadn't grown into her full magical abilities yet. That Krasmira trusted Miss Granger's spellwork enough to believe the scan showed that the Healer had a high estimation of her abilities.

"That makes sense." Viktor stared up at the ceiling. He wished he could sit up to have this conversation, but he knew from past experience that Krasmira would be irritated if he so much as twitched while she was gone.

She nodded, and they lapsed into another awkward silence. He watched her shift her weight from foot to foot and bite her lip as she glanced at him.

"What Dark curse gave you the mark on your chest?" She motioned at the star-shaped mark a few shades darker than his skin.

The room was dark, the dim winter light filtering into a lone window. The lot of them stood in two rows facing each other. Friedrich stood across from him, the white lines around his mouth betraying his stress. "Begin!" Evgeni barked, and Friedrich raised his wand. Viktor stood still, hands at his sides and back straight, desperately wishing he could go for his wand, but he couldn't. Not this time.

His jaw clenched, and he looked away for a moment. "Do not ask that question to me or to anyone else on the team." His experience definitely was not the worst of them all, and it was something that wasn't discussed among them all, even though they all saw the marks on each other's bodies when they changed in the locker room. It was an unspoken code that was upheld at all times, and now this girl expected him to bare a deeply personal moment to her to fulfill her curiosity, when he wouldn't even tell his mother?

She licked her lips. "But shouldn't I know? As someone who is now partially responsible for your care?"

She dared to press him on something as sensitive as this? "It is not something to be discussed."

"But Madam Lazarov has a note—"

"Enough." The force of the word halted Hermione mid-sentence, and she looked at him with wide eyes. "Healers know when to press and when not to. You clearly have much to learn, little girl." He stood, fluidly shrugging back into his kit with fast, economical movements as a sudden rage born out of fear of the memories consumed him. He needed to get out. He needed to fly.

"I'm sorry," Hermione ventured after a moment, her voice uncertain, as he slipped his flying robes on and sealed them shut with his wand. "I simply thought that it was something I should know."

His dark eyes met hers for one piercing moment. "You thought wrong." With that, he swept out, pulling his gloves on. He didn't want to be in the room with her for one more moment.

"The exam wasn't over!" she called after him, almost desperately, but he didn't respond.

By the time he retrieved his broom, he was almost frantic to get into the sky, to fly away high and escape the memories threatening to weigh him down. He could feel the grasping tendrils of darkness grabbing at him, but he didn't want to return there, to that day, to the days that followed, when they had all had what innocence they still possessed stripped from them.

He spiralled up high into the sky, reaching for the clouds as his face was bathed by the sun, and spent hours doing grueling drills by himself as far above ground as possible, the stadium looking more like a toy model than a reality. When at last he came down, his mind exhausted from concentration, his body limp like a rag, practice was winding down.

Islov looked at him with an appraising eye. "You threaten your quality of play tomorrow, Viktor."

He stiffened but responded evenly, "I will be fine for the game."

"You pushed yourself to the limit today."

"Not past it." Viktor met Islov's eyes squarely. "I will be fine."

"Don't do it again, lest I be forced to play Vladislov in your stead."

He bristled at the threat. "I'm leagues beyond Vladislov, and you know it."

Islov folded his arms. "Be as that may, if you're not at one hundred percent because of your own idiocy, it may be better to play him than you, since his reflexes will be faster and his turns sharper. This is the World Cup, boy. Any mistakes this far in could be fatal to the team, and you, running out of the physical because some pretty little girl upset you and flying away on your broom, could endanger it all. Now go home and relax. In case you missed it, we have a game tomorrow."

Viktor flinched. "Yes sir." He tucked his lips between his teeth, his grip tight on his broom, and walked off the pitch.

"I saw Islov give you a dressing down." Pyotr sidled up to him, an eyebrow arched. "Not as bad as it could be, though. He didn't even yell, and he only crossed his arms near the end, which is when you know it's bad. But what the hell, Viktor!" Pyotr slapped him on the side of the head. "You know we've got a game tomorrow! I know you're all worked up over the English girl — and I mean, really, who isn't? — but you can't get in a twist over her now. Wait until tomorrow evening."

"This coming from the man who had a bet with Clara about who could get the most information about her the fastest?" Viktor looked at him in disbelief. "Don't even try it. And I'm not 'all worked up' over her," he continued, using inverted quotes. "At least not the way you're saying."

Pytor smirked. "Oh? So you're not going to tell me she isn't pretty? I mean, that wild hair of hers! And her eyes! Not to mention that pale perfect English skin, and her accent." He waggled a brow. "She's much too young for any of us, that's clear…except for you, my friend." His idiot friend clapped a hand on his shoulder, looking far too cheerful for his own good.

Lowly, Viktor said, "She asked about the mark on my chest." He didn't have to say which one he was talking about.

Pyotr sobered up almost instantly, his wide smile morphing into a slight frown. "Ah. I see." He paused for a moment in thought, fingers coming up to stroke his lightly bearded chin. "Well, she is English," he commented, "and she is Krasmira's apprentice as well. Perhaps they do it differently in England, and she didn't know better?"

It was plausible, he supposed, but he wasn't in the mood to excuse it, considering how her actions affected his playing. "She should have known better," he growled. "And she pushed when I told her I wouldn't discuss it."

Pyotr made a thoughtful noise. He knew how private Viktor was, almost to the point of obsessiveness. "I'm certain you told her how it is here?"

"I did," he confirmed.

"Then she knows now, and won't do it again." He shrugged the entire matter off. "Besides, a little birdy told me that you're the one who insulted her and called her a fan first, so really the scales are all balanced now, no?"

Startled and instantly mortified at Pyotr somehow knowing that fact, Viktor transferred his glare from the handle of his broomstick to Pyotr. "How in Merlin's name did you find that out?"

Pyrotr's laugh was gleeful. "I don't divulge my sources, you know that."

"This is going to haunt me forever, isn't it?" Viktor sighed and looked down at his broom again, tracing the grain with a finger.

"Not forever, per se," Pyotr replied. "Only, say, mostly forever. Don't worry," he soothed. "You'll likely do something else equivalently moronic the next time you see her if this is how the first two interactions have gone, so I'll have something else new to hold over your head. You really are excellent entertainment."

In response, Viktor held up his middle finger and made his way to the locker room to grab his things, Pyotr's laugh following him.

When he hit the entrance to the locker room, Krasmira was waiting for him. "Viktor," she said, toe tapping against the stone floor. "Care to tell me why you walked out of my infirmary in the middle of my exam, and why I had to deal with an incessantly apologizing assistant for the next several hours?"

He stifled a groan of dismay, feeling somehow less like a Quidditch star and more like a delinquent school child, but his expression must have betrayed his feelings, because she narrowed her eyes at him. "I leave for five minutes to check on a potion, and when I return you've stormed off. Honestly." She sniffed. "This is why I refused to work at schools. Children are far too dramatic."

He refrained from pointing out that she had chosen to work with Quidditch players instead, who, in his opinion, were often worse than his classmates at school, and instead said, very appropriately, "I apologize, Madam Lazarov."

"You had better damn well apologize," she sniffed again. "I had to look at Miss Granger's positively odious expression of terror all afternoon. She thought I was going to send her back to England right then and there." She smoothed an invisible crease in her robes. "Those English. So fragile in their sensibilities."

She was that upset? Inwardly, he frowned. Well, she should have known better than to ask what she had, but surely she would have known that Krasmira wouldn't have fired her just for making him upset. Although it was just her first week, he thought with the beginning stirrings of his unfortunately stubborn conscience. How could she have known better?

Krasmira, meanwhile, had impatiently begun walking towards the infirmary, not even bothering to see if he was following her. "I sent her home when Islov dismissed you all," she mentioned offhandedly. "I couldn't take it any longer. She was upsetting my research."

More like the girl was upsetting Krasmira, he thought. For all that she was a gossiping harpy, she didn't do too well experiencing the wide variety of feelings that humans felt in close quarters, with the exception of a few people. It was one of the reasons she preferred to focus on research, which Quidditch allowed her to do in relative peace. Players were injured relatively infrequently and necessitated little care day-to-day, but she needed to be there in the case they were injured, as they then required both immediate and extensive medical care.

Well, he thought prosaically, at least he wouldn't have to see her again today. That, at least, was a good thing.

"I think we might do an extended physical," Krasmira said as they arrived. If he could see her face, he was sure she would be smirking. "After all, you did do rather...extensive exercises today. What if you injured something and haven't warmed down enough to realize it?"

He thought longingly of the ice bath and Firewhisky awaiting him at home. Bracingly, he replied, "I'm certain you know best."

"Of course I do." She motioned for a curtain to pull aside and then turned to him, her lips slightly curled at the edges, lending her a sinister look that didn't bode well for him. "Now strip."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The road to hell (or true love) is paved with good intentions. And bad communication. And hurt feelings. Whoops?


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! Sorry I wasn't able to update on Monday; like I mentioned, sometimes I can and sometimes I can't. Pulling 60 hour work weeks really kills me extracurriculars lol However, I hope this chapter makes up for it! It is 90 words short of 5K, so it is extra long :) 
> 
> In other news, I hit two really big milestones yesterday and today for this fic: 1. I wrote my first ever scene for Book 4 (despite not having finished up the summer yet, lmao), and 2. I finally, finally crossed the 100K line. As of posting this, the fic is 101,116 words long. *celebratory dance* That number sure made me smile.

She had completely messed everything up because she couldn't keep her know-it-all mouth shut. Merlin, what kind of idiot was she, that she couldn't contain her curiosity and just had to push and push and keep pushing until she went one step too far? And Madam Lazarov had sent her home even though it wasn't quite the end of the day, which just showed how badly she'd bungled things. At least she hadn't just told her flat out not to show up tomorrow, which, Merlin, was her first official match. She couldn't afford to botch things up again, especially on such an important day. No, she promised herself, tomorrow she would be perfect. She wouldn't do anything wrong. She'd hardly speak and wouldn't ask questions. Tomorrow, she would be the ideal apprentice.

Disconsolately, she cut an apple and carried the plate full of slices into the garden, absentmindedly summoning a book from upstairs. It was strange, she thought for a moment, how natural it felt to use her magic for everything, even fetching books. It would be nigh-impossible after the end of the summer to go back to being unable to use her wand off of Hogwarts grounds, but the special dispensation she had gotten had a finite end date, and she would return to being just like everyone else. A little brainier, perhaps, but normal all the same.

She settled in to read, comfortably ensconced on the wooden bench with her feet tucked underneath her, and was soon lost between the pages. The vibrant smells of the flowers and the warm heat of the sun—yet another clear day, she marvelled—lulled her into a dozing haze, the book in her hands sinking lower and lower until it rested on her lap facedown.

"Gone for a bit of a lie down, hm?"

The unfamiliar voice snapped her out of her doze instantly, and she was upright with her wand in her hand before she was fully awake. A grinning Sirius Black stood before her, hands tucked comfortably in his trousers despite the wand she was pointing at him. "Hello, kitten," he greeted, blonde hair falling over his eye roguishly.

She lowered her wand, her free hand coming to rest on her chest. "You scared the daylights out of me, you oaf. I could have hexed you!"

"Me?" Sirius asked, arching a brow. "I doubt it. I would guess I've been in a few more duels than you have."

Her interest piqued, Hermione asked, "You have?"

He nodded, smirking as he elaborated, "There used to be a duelling club at Hogwarts. James and I had the best time hexing and cursing those snivelling Slytherins to hell and back. I was reigning champion two years running. Lily probably would have wiped the floor with us if she'd been interested, but she was too busy disapproving of our, uh, extra practice sessions—" she assumed hexing Slytherins in the corridors "–and being a Prefect to even join in. Bit stuck up, sometimes, she was, but if you ever made her mad..." He shook his head, wincing at a memory. "She was something else to see. Or feel, if you were being hexed. She knew some nasty curses."

Fervently, Hermione wished Harry were here to hear this. She resolved to write him a letter as soon as possible to detail everything Sirius had said.

"I'm impressed," Hermione told him, "although duelling people outside of a sanctioned area really is against the rules." Wisely, she refrained from mentioning her own experience of punching Malfoy on the castle grounds.

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Rules are made for bending, kitten. Or breaking, really," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "I'm not meant to be chained by such trivial things."

Incredulously, Hermione said, "Trivial things? Rules are important! Rules are there for a reason!"

"Says the girl who used a Time-Turner to save me from certain death," Sirius pointed out wryly. "Oh, and who's helping me brew a, hm, _sensitive_ potion." He arched a brow. "Not such a goody two-shoes after all, are we?"

Flummoxed, Hermione stared at him mutely. Rules dictated her life, helped set a regimented pattern. In her experience, rules determined not only what she could do but also how and when she could do it. But it seemed, she thought, that perhaps she wasn't so good at following rules after all. To be fair, she usually only broke them when she had a good reason.

But not with Malfoy. Punching him had been just for sheer satisfaction.

"Now that we've discussed what an amazing bloke I am," Sirius preened for a moment, flipping his hair out of his face with a quick jerk of his head, "we need to discuss something much less exciting: tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" she repeated, startled. "What are you talking about?"

"Hermione," Sirius exclaimed, exasperated, "you're going to Morocco tomorrow! Or did that slip your mind?"

"Well, I—I suppose it did," she admitted, not having really thought about what it meant that the game she was preparing for tomorrow was in Morocco. "I've been rather focused on work."

"Which is the entire reason you're going!"

"I know, I know." She sighed, shoulders slumping. "But I wouldn't be surprised if this was the only time I got to go."

Puzzled, he asked, "What do you mean?"

She winced, knowing she'd have to explain her mistake now that she'd made another mistake in bringing it up. Biting her lip, she took a deep breath and plunged into with her explanation. His eyebrows went higher the further she explained until she half-wondered if they wouldn't just climb all the way into his hairline.

"I can understand why you thought you should ask," he told her after a moment, "but having a scar from a Dark curse...it's something you don't really talk about, because it's not something you want to think about. The unspoken rule, really, is not to mention it at all unless the person bearing it does first."

Didn't that just make her feel like a right heel. "Oh."

"Oh, indeed," he responded dryly. "I suppose an apology or something of the sort might be in order?"

Mutely, she nodded, still feeling chagrined, and he clapped her on the shoulder consolingly. "Chin up, kitten. I doubt the Healer—what's her name, uh, Lazarov?—will give you the boot for that if Krum didn't make a stink about it. I think you'd have heard about it by now, anyways.

"So!" He clapped his hands together. "Assuming you still have an apprenticeship tomorrow, let's talk logistics. The game is in Morocco, and the Portkey came by post yesterday in a nice official package from the Bulgarian Ministry by way of the Quidditch team. Because you're still underage, you must travel with me, or, really, I have to go with you." He grinned at her look of dismay. "Have no fear—I have many things with which I will amuse myself far away from you. A man like myself can find many, many—how shall I say this?— _diversions_ at a Quidditch game." His grin morphed into something more lascivious.

"You are disgusting," she primly informed him. "Don't get too drunk off your arse while you're being 'distracted'," she said, and affected a wide-eyed, scared look. "What if I need you? After all, I am a hapless, helpless teenage girl."

He snorted outright at that. "Don't think I don't know who you are. I was there during all that mess a couple weeks ago, and helpless is certainly one thing you are not."

She flushed in pleasure at the compliment, and they hammered out the logistics of when to depart. After a quiet evening, she turned in early so as to be rested.

The Portkey the next day went without event, though international Portkey really did make her feel nauseated beyond belief. Looking a bit green himself, Sirius helped her navigate through the stadium to the visiting team's infirmary, where he dropped her off with a promise to retrieve her later.

Upon her first glance through the large floor-to-ceiling window that all Quidditch infirmaries seemed to have, her jaw dropped. Hermione had never seen so much sand in her entire life. The Moroccan Winders ("Shortened from Ashwinders, which are numerous due to the high heat and dry conditions," Madam Lazarov had told her a few days earlier as they prepared a variety of potions for transportation) had stationed their stadium in the outskirts of Marrakesh, nestled deep between the orange-gold sand dunes that stretched as far as the eye could see. The stadium had been built _into_ the ground rather than being built up as the Bulgarian's stadium had been, making the top of the stadium only slightly higher than the dunes surrounding it.

"Doesn't that make flying rather uncomfortable?" Hermione asked, thinking of the wind that would carry the sand into the players' eyes.

"Why do you think they wear full body uniforms and goggles?" Madam Lazarov responded, the question rhetorical. "It's certainly not because they're cool, although the fabric has been spelled to help with breathability. The wind and sand here has been known to strip the skin right off those who weren't protected enough. I think you'll see many who have tickets closer to the surface will be dressed in similar protective clothing."

Interesting. She peered up through the infirmary's window and into the thin blue sky far, far above them. For a moment, she fancied she could see streams of sand dancing in the wind, so much like ribbons, but knew better than to think her eyesight was that keen.

"Once you're done gawking, place the potions over there," Madam Lazarov pointed a finger at a large counter against the far wall between the two rows of beds, "and unpack them and sort them in terms of likelihood of use."

Hermione's cheeks burned. So much for perfect, she thought, then hurried to do as the Healer bade. She stared at the variety of potions, all neatly bottled and labeled, then pushed up her sleeves before getting to work. Ultimately, she decided on grouping them into four main groups: potions that were boosters, like PepperUp; potions that treated minimal injuries such as scrapes and deep bruising, like Essence of Dittany and Balm Paste; potions that treated midrange injuries such as broken bones, with the ever-present SkeleGro and lesser known but more effective Karrigan's KnitNoMore; and finally, potions that treated more extreme injuries such as internal injuries, like Uriam's Tears of Ystria, which Hermione had never heard of until Madam Lazarov handed her a treatise on its uses and dangers and instructed her to write two feet justifying when she would use it and when she wouldn't.

"I'm done?" Hermione said finally, though it came out more like a question than a statement.

"Are you?" Madam Lazarov snapped a sheet over a cot, the color going from starched white to Bulgarian burgundy as it floated down to rest against the mattress.

She pushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, staring at her arrangement of the potions, then finally nodded again more confidently. "Yes, I am."

"Good. Now help me get this room into order. Blasted Moroccans think they can place us in a transfigured storage room and I wouldn't know it?" She huffed. "At least it's not as bad as that time in Australia last QWC. Now _that_ was truly a disgraceful situation."

Both Hermione and Madam Lazarov worked through the day into early afternoon without pause, stopping only to eat a light lunch. She could hear the stadium filling up, and butterflies began to take root in her stomach. In just an hour or so, the match would begin.

"Where are the players?" she asked Madam Lazarov. "When do they get here?"

"They usually warm up at the stadium back in Bulgaria before coming here to finish warm ups and get a feel for the stadium. I know many of them have had matches here before, considering they all play on professional teams outside of the World Cup—well, except for Viktor," she amended, "considering he's still a student at Durmstrang. He very well might be the only player that hasn't been here before. Still, they all prefer to get some air time before the match starts to get used to wind and weather conditions and to the noise, though I think they eventually learn to tune that out."

"Lev is likely already here," she added as an afterthought. "He likes to Portkey in a bit earlier than the others—he doesn't do well with Portkey travel, makes him ill—and then hide in the locker room until he's all fixed up. If the man would just come get an anti-nausea potion—" she cut herself off before she could start reciting what was obviously an old grievance and shook her head.

Hermione frowned. "But aren't they all coming together?"

Krasmira shot her a look. "Miss Granger, it's the Quidditch World Cup. If you think the Bulgarian Ministry is going to count their Galleons when we've made it this far, you're sorely mistaken. No, they each get their own Portkey. It takes them straight to the locker room so they don't have to deal with fans prior to the game."

She had yet to see _any_ of them interacting with fans, but she supposed it was because she only saw them when they were really, truly working. And it _was_ work, she recognized that now. They all bore the hallmarks of workaholics, coming early and staying late long after the sun had set and she had left, working to be the best they could be.

Luckily, given her experience with Harry, she knew the drain that fans—or haters—could have on a person, so she refrained from asking if it was truly necessary. "So it's that bad, then?" she asked.

Madam Lazarov looked up. "You have no idea. And poor Viktor." She made a clicking sound of disapproval. "He's got it the worst, and he's the youngest. It's a good thing he's got his head on straight, or it would be going to his head. No, he's the least likely of them all to become truly egocentric—he hates the attention. Truthfully, he's a bit of an introvert. He'd have my head if I told you this, but he's a decent wizard, all things said."

She thought of the Viktor she had seen thus far, arrogant and irritable, and couldn't imagine him as the Viktor the Healer had described. "I suppose so," she responded doubtfully.

"You'll see," the Healer assured her. "I know you haven't gotten off on the right foot, but give him time. Not that it matters to me, of course," she added, "so long as you two are able to interact well enough for you to get your job done."

"Right. Of course." The reminder made the pressure of needing to talk to Viktor and apologize build.

Just then, a disembodied voice, made louder by a _Sonorous_ , echoed through the stadium, announcing the game would start in the immediate future. The lights in the stadium brightened, brightening it up even more as the evening's summer light streamed in from above. The dim buzz of the crowd swelled to a deafening roar, as the players took to the field in a spectacle reminiscent of the Muggle football matches she had seen in the past.

After some laps around the pitch and some warm up drills she had seen them do on the home pitch, the players, mere specks in the sky, settled into formation. She could see Lev's sturdy form hovering by the hoops, and Clara and Pyotr floated next to each other, Pyotr flanking Clara on the outside in a protective position.

Her mouth was getting dry and her body tight with nerves, and she wasn't even a player. She shook her head at her antics but watched as several referees strode out on the field carrying a trunk between them. One mounted their broom and took to the skies, stopping between the burgundy clad Bulgarians and the sky blue Moroccans. "The game begins in, three, two, one…" she counted down, her voice amplified, and on 'one', the referee on the ground released the latch on the trunk and stepped away as balls hurtled upward.

The game was absolutely brutal, there was no question about that. Everyone was out for blood, it seemed, as beaters hit bludgers at the opposing sides with savage accuracy, many of the players getting clipped. When one of her players got hit side on by a rocketing bludger, she gasped, tensing.

Next to her, Madam Lazarov was completely calm, her eyes scanning the play above. "He'll be fine," she told the girl standing next to her. "I've seen Vasily take much worse and keep going."

Hermione wasn't quite sure _she'd_ want to carry on after being hit by a missile going thirty-five kilometres an hour, but apparently that was par for the course.

It was what happened another half hour later that had them racing to the field, robes flapping behind them. Alexei had been racing towards the hoop with a quaffle tucked under his arm, his lean form bent over the handle as close as possible, when one of the Moroccan beaters sent a bludger toward his unsuspecting form.

"No, no, no," she chanted, wincing away from the view even as she watched it happen. The bludger rammed into Alexei's back with an almost audible thud, and the Chaser, taken by complete surprise, was sent plummeting from his broom, his robes flapping around him as the quaffle fell from his grip.

"And Alexei Levski is off his broom!" the announcer yelled, voice taut, even as she and Madam Lazarov sprinted to the middle of the field. "He's falling, he's falling—ah, he's been caught by two of the wizards who are stationed directly below precisely for that reason. His replacement's been substituted in—that would be Dobromir Anev, ladies and gents, but wait— _wait_ , has Krum caught the snitch? Has he done it while all this has been going on?"

The crowd roared as it was confirmed that game was, in fact, over, and the Bulgarians would be advancing to the next round **,** but Hermione tried to tune it out as best as she could. Alexei was completely unconscious, his body twisted in an unnatural way as the two Safety Wizards held him suspended. "Hold him exactly as you are," Madam Lazarov instructed the two wizards that had caught him as he fell before casting _Petrificus Totalus_ on him so he wouldn't move while she and Hermione transported him back to the infirmary. She then cast her own _Wingardium Leviosa_ on him and held him at chest level.

"Miss Granger, the basic scanning spell if you will?"

Hermione nodded, quickly casting the spell with an air of experience, although she attributed it more to the sudden calm that had descended upon her than actual experience. Immediately, all sorts of alarms went off, and both she and Madam Lazarov looked at the readings.

"As I thought," the Healer murmured. "Come, we must get him back to the infirmary quickly. He's broken most of his ribs on the left side and a few of his vertebrae. The ribs are nothing we can't fix, but I am rather concerned about any damage to the spinal cord."

Quickly, they moved to their side of the field, and Madam Lazarov instructed Hermione to Vanish the large floor-to-ceiling window that Hermione had used to look out of earlier. "Why do you think it's that way?" she snapped when Hermione hesitated for a brief moment. "Don't waste any time—get on with it!"

Hermione didn't spare a moment in doing so, keeping abreast of both Alexei and Madam Lazarov as the two entered the infirmary. Madam Lazarov kept Alexei floating above a cot as she and Hermione quickly cut his robes off of him, revealing rapidly darkening flesh that was turning a mottled black from his sternum to his back on the left side. "Merlin," Hermione couldn't help but whisper as she caught sight of a glint of sharp white bone protruding from Alexei's side. It was part of his rib. A simple _Episky_ couldn't fix something like that, she knew for certain.

"Hermione. Look at me," Madam Lazarov instructed. She met the Healer's eyes across the bed, and the woman looked at her intensely. "If you're going to be useless, then leave. If you want to help, then stay, but I expect you to do everything I tell you to without questions or hesitation. Alexei is hurt very badly, and I need to know if I can rely on you to help me fix him. Can I do so? Be honest."

Everything in her calmed to a perfect crystalline clarity. Alexei needed her, and so did Madam Lazarov. She was needed, and she would perform. "I can do it," she replied crisply. The Healer nodded once, and then began telling her exactly what to do. About halfway through helping her manipulate Alexei's vertebrae back into place after pouring potion after potion down his throat, Hermione began wishing for her Time-Turner simply so she could be yet another set of hands. Wishing wouldn't do anybody any good in this situation, so she bent her head to the task and continued with grim determination, remaining unflinching even when Alexei's bones began visibly moving underneath his skin.

What felt like hours later, she stood up from her cramped position over Alexei's form, blinking rapidly to restore moisture to eyes that had been open for so long they had gone completely dry. "Is it done?" she asked, unable to keep from double- and triple-checking the readings from the multiple status spells they had cast and stuck to the wall with a semi-permanent sticking charm. "Is he going to be okay?"

Madam Lazarov straightened up from a similar pose, one hand going to the small of her back as she stretched out a kink. "I believe the worst of it has passed, yes," she responded after casting a critical glance at first Alexei, now sleeping on the cot, and then the readings, her eyes coming to rest on Hermione. "He'll need several days worth of further observation and incremental healing, with a larger session tomorrow and the day after, but I believe he should recover fully."

Hermione couldn't help the exclamation of joy that escaped, and Madam Lazarov smiled back in return, the two of them slightly giddy with relief. "You did well, Hermione," she told her apprentice with a slightly approving expression. "You never once baulked, even when it got dicey in the middle. I'm proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself. What you did today wasn't easy for anyone, let alone someone as young as you. You shouldn't have been able to learn on the fly as you did, considering the complexity of the wandwork and the spellwork."

"I'm just glad I could help at all," Hermione replied honestly. "I would have thought I had been useless. I know I don't know all that much, despite how much I _want_ to know—want to help."

"Well," Madam Lazarov told her as she briskly washed her hands in a basin set against the wall, "I would say your compulsive book learning paid off in this case." She smirked at Hermione's flabbergasted expression. "Poppy and Albus may have mentioned something about your penchant for….over-preparation."

That was one way of putting it, Hermione thought wryly. "I'm glad it helped me be of use here. What we did…" She shook her head. "I never thought something like that was possible. I mean, I knew it was in theory, but reading about it and seeing it in action is something worlds apart. I feel...I don't even know. Rewarded?"

Healing Alexei had lit something deep in her belly that had spread through her body like wildfire, sparking her heart and mind. Here was something that took everything she had to offer and more. Here was something where she made a direct, discernible difference. Alexei wouldn't suffer any permanent damage like paralysis, or even broken ribs, and she had helped make that happen.

Madam Lazarov nodded. "I know the feeling you speak of. It happened to me the first time I helped heal someone, too. It's an incredible feeling, and it never goes away. Every time I heal someone, no matter how big or small the injury, I feel it. What we can do, it's a miracle. It's why I didn't want to only go into research. I believe I had a duty to heal those in need, even idiotic Quidditch players."

The light in the Healer's eyes was one of true belief, and Hermione felt humbled to be able to work with her and under her guidance. "I'm really glad to be here," she told her. "I had thought you might sack me yesterday, what with the mistake I made with Viktor, and I promise I'll try not to do something so idiotic again. I want to stay here. I want to learn." Really and truly, almost more than anything she had ever wanted, she found. The only thing she had wanted more was to go to Hogwarts when she first discovered she was a witch.

Madam Lazarov rolled her eyes and waved a hand dismissively. "Viktor's a bit sensitive, as are some of the other players, you'll find, although him more than most. He's a temperamental little thing. I trust you learned the errors of your ways?"

"I'm going to apologize to him," Hermione said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other nervously. "I didn't realize that asking about Dark marks or scars was taboo, and I pushed when I shouldn't have."

An as-of-yet unnoticed figure moved into their line of sight from his place against the Vanished window's frame. It was Viktor, showered and clean from his victory after the game and clad in black trousers and a white shirt open at the throat. "It's all right," he said, shifting awkwardly. "I shouldn't have made such a fuss over it. You couldn't have known, I don't think."

He paused, taking in Alexei's still form under the burgundy covers, and asked the question he had clearly come to ask, "Is he okay? I didn't know until after I caught the snitch that anything had happened. By then he was in here with you, and we haven't gotten word. I think the others will be coming by shortly—we just got done with the presser." The words ran together a little at the end, and Hermione realized with a start that he was anxious about his friend.

"He's stable for now," she told him after a quick glance at Madam Lazarov, who nodded at her. "He had several broken ribs and several cracked vertebrae after those bludgers hit him at once, but we managed to repair the broken nerves and bones. Madam Lazarov said that he needs to be kept under observation for a couple days, and I don't think it's wise to move him quite yet…" She nibbled at her lip in thought of how that was supposed to work, given that they were supposed to leave the country that evening.

"She's quite right." At his look, Madam Lazarov made a dismissive noise. "Don't look so concerned. We've weathered worse. Alexei will be fine. I'll stay with him overnight, then transport him to the nearest hospital to use their floo—they're designed for cases like this and connected to the international floo network. They're also big enough for bed-bound patients to be transported across," she explained. "I'll bring him back that way, so he can be in comfortable surroundings while he recovers."

"My family employs a Healer with a specialization in nerve damage," Viktor told Madam Lazarov, his gaze resting on his friend. "I would be happy to ask them to come in for a consult." His expression twisted for a moment, and Hermione thought for a moment of the times she had seen the two flying together during warmups or in conference up in the air, their brooms angled close together with Pytor's. It would be terribly hard to see a friend injured like that, she thought, shuddering at the thought of either of her boys taking Alexei's place.

Madam Lazarov shrugged. "It wouldn't be a bad idea to cover all the bases. We can talk about it tomorrow. For now, though, both of you should go home. Especially you, Hermione. It's been a long day, and your Portkey is likely to expire at midnight. I trust you can find your guardian?"

Knowing him, she wouldn't put it past him to be getting shagged or pissed right this instant. "I'll manage," she said evasively. "Are you sure I can't do anything else?"

"Or I?" Viktor echoed her offer.

"No," the Healer said firmly, and made shooing motions. "And he needs peace and quiet, so go tell your teammates what I said and that we're not to be disturbed! Get gone, both of you."

Obediently, they made towards the exit, though Hermione saw him tuck something small and gold into Alexei's hand. The snitch, she realized, so that when he woke up he would know they had won.

Yes, she mused at the thoughtful gesture, perhaps he wasn't so bad after all.


	11. Chapter Ten

Alexei's fall had shaken the team. They hadn't had a severe injury like that in awhile, where one of them fell unconscious in the course of the match. The victory had felt good but not quite as sweet since one of their own had been deeply injured, and the team's solemnity after the game reflected that, both during the presser and in the locker room. After briefly running the presser, Viktor escaped to check on Alexei, glad to have the opportunity to check on his friend.

He got there just in time to overhear Granger's reaction to healing Alexei, which left him feeling somewhat winded and humbled. His estimation of her had risen steadily as he watched her help Krasmira from his position at the doorway where he had stopped. Her complete, unwavering focus and unflinching willingness to do whatever it took to help Alexei impressed him, but it had been the awe and newborn passion in her voice when he'd overheard them talking about healing that had really shifted his perception of her from an annoying nuisance to a person that seemed worth knowing.

He knew the passion she felt. He had felt it too, the first time he had caught a snitch.

The fact that her passion manifested in healing, the most selfless discipline he knew of, made him wonder exactly who she was. Surely someone with a passion like that was more than a cool, unflappable girl with a tendency to be in the wrong places or to say the wrong thing.

That, combined with the barely masked fear that her mistake yesterday could cost her his job caused him to step forward and intervene, and thankfully it was quickly resolved. However, it had led to the two of them being left alone together for the first time since the incident by the riverbank, and he shifted his weight as he tried to figure out what to do. Should he say something and try and patch things up, or make his excuses and leave?

Granger took the issue right out of his hands as she said, "I really am sorry about yesterday." The toe of her sensible trainer dug into the floor somewhat bashfully. "I didn't even know that I was making a mistake." She looked straight into his eyes, held out her hand, and quirked a little smile. "Could we perhaps start again? I feel as though we've had one incident after another."

He looked at her hand for a moment before reaching out and clasping it firmly. It wrapped around his, the grip tight and dry before she dropped it. "I'm Viktor," he told her, and felt his lips curl a little. "I like to play Quidditch."

She laughed at the complete understatement, her eyes lighting up. "I'm Hermione. I like to read." And with that, the tension between them somehow completely melted away.

"So you're finished here?" he asked, waving at the medical bay, and she nodded. "Where are you going now? You're too young to be in an unfamiliar country by yourself."

Shooting him a look, she responded, "Like you're that much older than me?"

He flushed, but stubbornly stood his ground. "I'm almost eighteen, and I've been doing this for almost a year now. I'm familiar with Quidditch stadiums and their ins and outs. Madam Lazarov said you'll be going back tonight?"

They fell into step together and they headed towards the exit. "Yes, but the issue is that I've got to find my guardian, Magellan. Um, Magellan Quickfoot," she said hastily, as if it were important that Viktor know his full name. "He should be around here somewhere…" Absently, she tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and she bit her lip. "He didn't really mention when or where he'd meet up with me, only that he'd find me."

She had said her guardian, not her parents, Viktor noted, and filed that thought away, right next to _he sounds irresponsible and unorganized._ "He didn't? I'm on my way to my family tent, and I can help you look for him on the way. If we don't find him, you're welcome to spend the night and Portkey back with us." _Maika_ would be over the moon to meet a girl he brought back (not that it was like _that,_ of course) and it would entertain her. Anything that brought light to her days made him happy, and he felt a sense of rightness in him. Yes, this would be an excellent solution.

Briefly, she reached out and touched his arm. "That's really quite nice of you, Viktor," she said earnestly as they walked out the doors, "but I'm sure I'll be okay. Magellan will—"

"Will what, hm?" A mild tenor voice asked. They both stopped and turned in the opposite direction they'd been heading, and stopped at the sight of a man leaning indolently against the wall in absolutely immaculate Pureblood summer attire.

"Magellan?" Hermione asked, surprised, and quickly moved towards him. "How did you get back here by yourself? It's restricted!"

Viktor didn't know what he expected Hermione's guardian to look like but had some nebulous idea of someone with equally curly hair that had a similarly intense yet slightly bookish air. It wasn't anything close to the reality that was currently leaning against the wall.

Magellan was a tall, lean man with a deceptively lazy pose and straw blond hair tied back in a fashionable queue. His eyes, though, were those of a killer, holding the ability to pin you in place with a single look. Viktor has seen eyes like that before. He knew to engage with someone who looked like and gave off an air of such intensity was to ask for trouble. His hand suddenly itched for his wand, but he didn't palm it, the weight of it against his forearm in its sheath reassuring enough.

"So you're the bloke that so upset my Hermione yesterday, hm?" The man asked in opening, ignoring Hermione's question. He straightened and slid a hand into one perfectly tailored pocket, his stance completely self assured. "Oh, and good match, by the way." It was said as an afterthought, as if winning the match that allowed them to proceed to the quarterfinals simply wasn't high on his list of things to think about.

He supposed the lack of enthusiasm for Quidditch really was something that ran in the family, given that Hermione hadn't even congratulated him and she worked for the team. "Thank you. I'm Viktor Krum," he said, extending his hand.

The man didn't take it, instead continuing to stare at him with that unnerving gaze. "A Krum? How...interesting. I suppose I see it," he said obliquely, then seemed to snap out of it, his gaze sharpening. "Look, boy, I don't know what game it is you think you're playing with Hermione, but you had best stop it. She's had a hard enough time of it as it is."

"Magellan," Hermione hissed, going bright red in between one breath and the next. "Stop it."

"Sir, I assure you, I'm not playing any games," Viktor responded, somewhat baffled and a bit irked at his assumptions. "It's true we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and she may have made a mistake yesterday, but I would count us as even enough to let bygones be bygones. We both made mistakes, but I'd like to move past them." His words were meant for them both, and even though he was looking at Magellan as he said them, he could see Hermione visibly relax, though the hand she placed on Magellan's arm was tight enough that her fingers were white.

"I'd like that very much, Viktor," she replied quickly before Quickfoot could get a word in edgewise. "Now, I think it's best we get home since it's been a rather long day, and I'm exhausted. I'm sure you are too, Magellan, so we're going to go now. Have a good evening!"

With that rather inelegant parting, she fairly dragged her guardian down the hall, already hissing something at him and reaching up to flick his cheek. The undignified noise that followed echoed down the hall, and his rather imposing impression lessened quite a bit as the more diminutive girl gave him a low-voiced tongue-lashing that lasted even as they turned the corner.

Well, he thought to himself, that was quite interesting indeed. The two were an unusual pairing. Truthfully, he couldn't quite see the familial relationship between the two given they looked and acted almost nothing alike, but there was some kind of bond there. He just couldn't define it, although it was clear Quickfoot was protective of Hermione.

Despite the late hour, most of the team was still in the visiting team's locker room when he arrived to gather his flying equipment and duffle bag. They weren't going to leave until they had visited Alexei, or at the very least gotten word of his condition. The only reason Viktor had been able to visit first was because he'd slipped away from the presser, a technique he was close to perfecting.

"Well?" Vasily demanded as soon as Viktor set foot in the room. "How is he? What did Krasmira say?"

Five sets of eyes trained on him expectantly. "He's fine," Viktor told them all. Clara let out a breath, Vasily clapped Pyotr on the back, and Ivan, never wordy, gave a sharp nod and clenched his hand in victory. "He's not healed," he cautioned, "but Krasmira says he'll be fine."

"Of course he will," Zogrof said dismissively. "We've got Krasmira on our side, after all." Around the room, the team nodded in agreement.

"And," Viktor felt compelled to add, "we've now got Miss Granger, as well."

"The apprentice?" Vasily asked. "What does she have to do with it?"

Quickly, Viktor outlined both what he'd seen the first time he'd gone and the conversation between the two he'd overheard the last time. Pytor let out a low whistle. "So she's good, is she? That little scrap of a thing helped save our best Chaser! Well, I'll be damned. Would've thought she'd faint right there."

Clara glared at him. "Why, because she's a _girl?"_

"No," he replied slowly, as if she were an idiot, "because she's _English._ "

Clara paused, considering, then gave a shrug as if to say, _fair enough_.

"We all owe her, if she helped heal Alexei." This from Vasily, who was one of the more honourable men on the team, though if you looked at the trail of broken hearts he left behind, you wouldn't know it. Once his loyalty was given, though, he was an unshakable ally.

"I agree," Clara said instantly, a wide smile blooming on her face in place of the glare she'd be directing at Pyotr only moments before as she glanced first at Vasily and then at Viktor. "I propose we all take her out to lunch the day after tomorrow."

Lunch? Viktor's brows rose. A team lunch? It would be as good as declaring she was theirs and a member of the team to all and sundry. But she had helped save one of their own. It wasn't something to thumb their nose at.

Besides, it would give him a chance to get to know her a bit better, he hoped, in a setting where it wasn't just them two, since that always seemed to cause issues.

"I think it would be a good idea," he offered his own support, and everyone else followed suit. It was quickly agreed upon that they'd take her to _Pavla's_ the next afternoon, where they went following every victory. It had become something of a tradition, and they were hesitant to break it.

One by one the players Portkeyed out back to Bulgaria, until it was just him and Vasily, who was packing up his bag slowly. The Beater was often the last one out of the locker room at games, as he had some sort of complicated post-game ritual he followed to the letter and was extremely superstitious about. Today, Viktor could see a familiar inward-facing anger on the man's expression. "Don't be too hard on yourself," Viktor told him, clapping him on the back. "You couldn't possibly have gotten to Alexei to beat off the Bludgers before they hit him. You were too far away."

"But I shouldn't have been," he replied morosely, hand coming up to rub at his neck. "I had thought that Achebe was going to hit one off toward Clara, so I was flying next to her, and instead she had been aiming for Alexei all along. But why both of them? I can't figure it out."

"And you probably won't." Viktor shrugged. "Who knows what they were thinking. Was it chance? Was it spite? They knew Alexei is the highest scoring player on the team, so maybe they strategized to take him out and waited until he had the Quaffle to make sure it was considered fair play. Wasting your time thinking about _why_ s probably isn't going to help in this case. Let it go."

Vasily let out a long, drawn out sigh. "Yeah, you're right. I just can't stop thinking about it."

He looked at Vasily sympathetically, knowing Vasily's failure would haunt the man in the upcoming days. Just like the Beater, he was obsessive with his failures, too, turning things over and over in his mind to see how he could have done things differently to catch the snitch on occasions he had been outflown or outmanoeuvered. On those occasions, he preferred to be left alone, so he would extend the same courtesy to the older man.

"I'm going to get going, then," he told him, and Vasily grunted in acknowledgement as he began polishing his broom. "See you at practice the day after tomorrow."

"Later."

Unlike the rest of the players, Viktor stayed in Morocco, going to find his mother in the family tent pitched out on the rolling dunes just outside the stadium. She came to every game of his, insisted upon it, even though both he and Kosta urged her to do otherwise. He was particularly worried about her coming here; her constitution was far too fragile for such a hot environment as the one encountered here, but she had insisted, and Lady Krum was not one to be denied when she wanted things.

She looked tired when he saw her, her skin looking paler and more translucent than ever, but her smile was still full of life and her warm embrace as strong as ever when she hugged him tight, drawing back to cup his face. "You were amazing tonight, my wonderful son. Al-Azm never stood a chance against you. You flew circles around him!"

"Thank you, _maika,"_ he replied warmly, placing a hand over her own to keep it against his face before drawing it down and loosely placing it on his arm. "Come, let us sit. I'm positively exhausted." It was true, but he was far more interested in getting her seated and comfortable than in his own state of being. "Was the view from the box good? When I asked, they assured me it would be in the shade, and that there would be a protective barrier against the sand."

She patted his face, laughing fondly. "My Vitya, always worrying so. The box was wonderful. I felt like I was flying with you! The sand was not an issue, which I'm thankful for, considering how much of it seemed to be flying around. It certainly was not as kind to you, hm?" Lightly, she touched his face, which was burned and a bit raw on his cheeks from the sun and the sand scouring it for three hours. He had never been more grateful for goggles in his entire flying career, though it was a close second to having them when flying through blizzards at school.

"It will heal up," he said dismissively, but when she made a face, promised, "I'll put some salve on it before I go to bed."

"Good boy. Speaking of injuries, how is Alexei doing?" Milena was fond of both Alexei and Pyotr, who had become somewhat regular guests at the manor for dinners ever since she had insisted on inviting her son's friends over.

"It was worse than that time I accidentally flew right into the hoop and fell, but Krasmira was able to patch him up. He should be fine within the week," Viktor told her, glossing over injuries as he always did. He picked up a carafe of water one of the house elves had thoughtfully placed nearby and poured himself a glass, taking a long drink.

"Excellent," Milena declared with satisfaction. "There isn't anything that woman can't fix, can she? I saw on the screen some girl helping her? A little brunette thing?"

Viktor shifted in his seat. "Ah. Yes. Miss Granger."

"Granger?" Milena questioned. "That's a foreign name, isn't it?"

He nodded. "She's English."

Her brows drew together. "What aren't you telling me, _moya sin_? Don't think I don't see that look on your face you get when you're hiding something."

He had a look? Merlin preserve him. "It's nothing, _maika_ , I promise."

"Vitya."

"Fine." He blew out a breath and explained everything in as sparing detail as possible, saying that she had asked him something about a scar he had rather than the Dark mark. She didn't need to know that he had one. He couldn't explain it to her in a way that would leave her satisfied, and he didn't want her to launch a campaign of vengeance against Durmstrang as he knew she would—not out of loyalty to the school but out of concern that it would sap her strength. "And so we are taking her to _Pavla's_ for lunch the day after tomorrow," he concluded, drawing his brief recitation to a close.

Milena, who had listened intently, sat back in her chair, one hand twisting a silver bracelet hanging from the other wrist. "I see," she said thoughtfully. "I like her. What? Don't make that face at me, young man. Anyone who can stand up to your admittedly grouchy and temperamental attitude is a welcome addition, in my opinion. Besides, the fact that she's both female and level-headed around you makes her a rare sort." A sly look. "Is she single?"

"Mother!" Viktor's protest was immediate.

Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "What?" she asked innocently. "I'm your mother. I have to ask."

"No. Just...no." He shook his head. "Don't you dare. She's just a girl. A different girl, that's true, but nobody special. She'll be gone before the summer is over, anyways."

Milena pursed her lips but said no more on the matter. He was thankful to have escaped her proclivity towards matchmaking, which had come out of nowhere recently. Privately, he thought that she worried about him after she had…

No. The thought did not bear thinking about.

He stood and downed the last of the water before bending over and kissing her cheek. "I'm turning in for the evening. Can I get you anything before you go? Perhaps charm your mattress to be softer? Get your medicines ready?"

She flapped a hand at him irritably. "Go to bed, Vitya. I am a witch who is _perfectly_ capable of taking care of herself. Besides, I have the house elves to help me if I do need help—which I won't. Stop worrying!"

"Very well," he acceded to her wishes. "I shall see you in the morning. The Portkey lasts all day, so we can leave when you wish." It had taken a bit of wrangling to have such a long window, but this was one case where he felt no shame whatsoever in using his fame to get what he wished.

"Goodnight, my quiet boy."

"Goodnight, _maika."_

The next day, once he was sure his mother was comfortably ensconced at Krum estate and he was back in his own home in Bulgaria, he spent the majority of his day off studying spellwork and working on his summer assignments, both official and unofficial. He enjoyed it well enough, bending his mind and will towards it with unwavering focus. He devoted particular attention to Defense Against the Dark Arts and Dark Arts. Never again would he let himself be hit by an Unforgivable, not if he had anything to say against it. Some scoffed at the idea he would take both subjects, but to him, they were complementary and necessitated concurrent study. Besides, his father's side of the family had a Dark affinity, which naturally lent itself to the Dark Arts. It was stubborn to simply ignore the subject, which he could one day use down the line, simply due to bad experience and an unwillingness to even vaguely align himself with his father in any way, even one as tangential as this.

Quickly, he jotted down a note to Karkaroff and sent it off via owl, hoping it would stave off any aggressive messages couched in the form of a congratulatory letter on winning the match, and then settled in for the night, knowing that his body needed the rest for the next day—the day following their days off were always brutal.

He was right about it being rough; in fact, Islov was harder on them than ever. As soon as they got there, Islov took a piece of parchment out from the sleeve of his robe and unrolled it, going through the team's faults before starting in on their individual faults. Alexei, he intoned dangerously, would be told the same when he went to see him at the infirmary during lunch. And no, he told them in the same breath, they couldn't go see him during their water breaks or lunch breaks. They'd have to wait until after practice, assuming they made it to then.

They all fairly stumbled off their brooms at midday, and Clara pushed him on the back towards the infirmary. "Go get Mia."

He looked at her, askance. "Mia?"

"You know," she responded impatiently, flipping her braid over her shoulder with a toss of her head, "the little healer?"

"Yes, but her name isn't Mia. It's Her-mininny. Her-mow-nee. Her-miah-now."He stopped, perplexed, as his mouth fumbled her name repeatedly, getting progressively worse, even as his mind pronounced it perfectly.

Clara arched a brow. "Exactly. So, Mia. It's close enough to the middle part of her name, don't you think? And she looks a bit like Mia Zokov," she added as an afterthought, referencing a famous dramatist seen in the rags.

It wasn't anything close to the way the middle of her name was pronounced, and Mia Zokov was at least ten years older than Hermione, but once Clara was decided upon something she wouldn't be budged, so he simply sighed and headed toward the infirmary.

It was only when he spotted Islov in there huddled in conference with both Krasmira and Alexei that he realized Clara's ulterior motive in sending him. Islov's eyes should have burned holes in him for the sheer amount of malevolent power that was directed his way.

"Mr Krum?" Hermione emerged from one of the back rooms, wiping her hands on her robes. "Can I help you with something? Madam Lazarov is busy, but perhaps I can assist you."

Quickly, he nodded and stepped forward, eager to get out from under the three sets of eyes—one murderous, one vaguely curious, and one rabidly interested—that were watching them. "We want you to come to lunch with us. To _Pavla's_. The team always goes after a victory."

"Really?" Her face brightened, then fell. "But I...I'm really not part of the team, am I?"

He touched her shoulder lightly in reassurance. "Don't be silly. Of course you are. Besides, everyone wants to thank you for helping Alexei yesterday," he continued in a low voice, trying not to let the idiot in question overhear. He was damned prideful, that one, and would get his trousers in a twist. "Please come."

She hesitated, her hands twisting the material of her robes, and looked over at Krasmira, who gave a small motion of encouragement. "I suppose it would be all right," she said slowly.

"Excellent," he said immediately, and used the hand on her back to propel her out of the room. "We will Apparate there from the locker room. It's got an apparition point in the corner for us to use, and it's faster to get there than to go to the main entrance. Have you Side-Alonged before?"

Her brows furrowed. "No, I haven't," she replied. "In fact, I've no experience with Apparition at all. I've only ever used the floo and Portkeyed."

None at all? Well, in for a sickle, in for a galleon. It was too late to back out now. He hoped she wouldn't become sick. "You'll be fine," he told her encouragingly. "I've done it many times and I've been to _Pavla's_ at least a hundred times before. You're perfectly safe with me."

Her eyes met his, caution warring with want. At last, she gave a tremulous smile and said somewhat bracingly, "All right, then. Let's do it."

* * *

_Translations_

_1\. Moya sin = my son_

_2\. Maika = mother_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday! Who loves meddling mamas? We love meddling mamas!
> 
> Up next: Hermione makes new friends, experiences new things, practices her new skills, and has a very, very interesting conversation about a new subject.


	12. Chapter Eleven

The very idea that one could not only teleport but could also take someone along boggled her mind. It was one thing to see it in the films and yet another completely to have someone mention it casually in conversation before inviting her along.

Truth be told, she was somewhat terrified, but she didn't want to ruin their fragile rapport by declining; besides, she figured she'd have to do it sooner or later anyhow. His very matter-of-fact manner about it also relaxed her because it made it seem so commonplace. Surely he was good at it if he had done it many times before…

"It's really very easy for you," he reassured her. "Simply hold onto my arm and don't let go no matter what. Apparating is definitely a unique experience in that it's unlike anything you've felt before, and some people who Side-Along get a bit nauseated. It's completely normal. Hm, what else? Ah, yes. It's up to you whether to close your eyes or not. Some prefer it, some don't. I'd try both before you decide."

"What do you do?"

"Eyes open," he responded instantly, explaining, "I like to see where I am at all times. Now, hold on."

Hesitantly, she placed her hand on his forearm, the muscular appendage wider than her palm. The dark hair crinkled under her touch, its texture rough and unlike anything she'd touched before.

"Tighter than that, Herminn—Hermyown—" his face twisted in a grimace "—Mia."

" _Mia_?" She exclaimed in dismay.

His shoulders hunched a little and the skin of his throat and cheeks darkened in a light flush. "It's your name. It's very...long. And English. I can't say it, and Clara calls you Mia, so I figure, why not? I am sorry. I'll work on it. But for now, please be patient with me."

"Well," she allowed, "it does make sense to have a nickname if my name causes that much trouble, but...Mia?" She grimaced.

He shrugged helplessly. "I will try and think of a better one, but I think Clara's will remain since it's already sticking. Now, hold on very tightly. You won't hurt me, I assure you."

Gingerly, she placed her hands on his shoulders. He arched an eyebrow, then repeated, "Tightly, Mia. Not so soft a bowtruckle could do better."

She bit her lip before stepping closer, sliding her hands down to his waist and wrapping her arms around him tightly. It brought them rather close together, much closer than most anyone else she'd ever been around.

"Better," Viktor said, his voice vibrating through his chest. She felt his whole body tense, and then the world suddenly turned liquid, the sky sliding down as the street rushed up before they twisted together and she was rammed through the very center.

With a pop and a bang, they were suddenly somewhere else, and she let go of Viktor as she stumbled to the side and violently wretched up every last thing she'd had to eat that morning.

When she came to awareness, Viktor was standing beside her, a commiserating hand on her shoulder. "It happened to me too for my first time," he told her when she straightened up, a violent blush vivid against the backdrop of her waxen cheeks.

She wiped the back of her hand against her mouth. "Really?" she asked dubiously. He could be saying that just to make her feel better for throwing up in the middle of a small alley in front of a storefront. A noise of dismay escaped her when she realized that she'd lost her guts in front of the very restaurant they were supposed to go into, a cramped glass front topped by a ragged awning declaring _Pavla's_ doing nothing to hide the worn wooden tables—or exuberant Quidditch players—within. "They all saw me," she said dully, a fresh wave of humiliation adding to her lingering nausea. "Wonderful."

"I vomited on my mother's shoes," Viktor said matter-of-factly, shrugging when she gaped at him. "At least you didn't do that." A second later and the whole mess had disappeared courtesy of a sleight of hand spell from Viktor.

She was still processing what his mother's face must have looked like when Viktor took her by the elbow and deftly guided her into the restaurant, opening the door and letting her pass through before stepping in behind her.

"Mia!" The perpetrator of her nickname waved excitedly at them as though trying to catch their attention in a jam packed crush. The restaurant was completely empty except for them, and he was again reminded of how glad he was that they rented it out for lunch for their victory lunches ("might as well call them Viktory lunches after dear old Vikky," Pytor had smirked evilly while marking it on the team agenda that hung on the locker room wall) since it meant they didn't have to deal with fans.

"You're late." Pavla glared at him and pulled a chair away from the table. The proprietress glared at the chair and then back at him. "Sit."

He sat. If he didn't she would give him servings of everything in the wrong temperature—hot when it should be cold, cold when it should be hot—and he never wanted to live through that again.

For Hermione, she was much nicer, going so far as to give her a cocked brow and a faintly accepting air. "You're the new Healer. I will bring you some ginger ale for your stomach." A sly glance toward the window facing the street.

"It wasn't—" Hermione began, and then stopped when Pavla hustled off without so much as a pretense that she was listening.

Across the table, Clara cackled. "Don't mind Pavla. She basically does what she wants and gives us what she wants, never you mind your preferences."

Face still red, Hermione sat down in the seat next to Viktor's and primly folded her hands in her lap. "Thank you for inviting me to lunch," she told the table at large, resigning herself to Pavla's treatment. "I've heard it's a bit of a team bonding event, and I appreciate being included."

"Why _wouldn't_ we ask a pretty girl to lunch?" Pytor asked, a friendly smile on his face, which vanished in the next instant when Clara slapped him on the side of the head with the flat of her palm. "Ow! What the hell was that for?"

"For being an idiot," she scowled at him. "No flirting with school girls, Pyotr." She then faced Hermione, expression growing earnest. "You're part of the team now, Mia, even though you haven't been here long. Your actions at the match only reinforced that."

Biting her lip, Hermione looked around the table of players, who all made some kind of positive motion. When she hit upon Viktor, her brown eyes swirling with uncertainty, Viktor reassured her, "It's true, Mia." Something hit one of the legs of her chair and she jolted in surprise, glancing down and then back up only to see a slight smirk on Viktor's face as he continued, "though I wouldn't say it's a good thing. Some of us might give you a hard time—a harder time—now for it."

Across the table, Vasily bit into a hunk of break and said succinctly, "Pranks and tricks. Pytor and Alexei are the worst of the lot."

It was just like Fred and George, then. Her expression eased, and she relaxed into her chair. "I can handle that just fine," she responded with the air of someone who had been around troublemakers for an extended period of time, and added, "Don't think I won't hex you, though."

Pytor narrowed his eyes. "I will not be cowed by your intimidation tactics!"

"But you will be by mine," Clara replied warningly, then dropped a wink in Hermione's direction. "Us girls have to stick together, yeah?"

The friendly gesture disarmed and warmed her at the same time. The whole rest of lunch progressed in a similar vein, with everyone including her and getting to know her. They seemed genuinely interested in her as a person, even though she was so much younger than them (apart from Viktor, of course). By the end of lunch she felt like she truly had been adopted into this strange family that she had somehow fallen into by luck. Pavla bullied her into eating things she never would have tried, Pyotr and Clara argued the entire time about absolutely everything, Zograf put away an absolutely alarming amount of some kind of lasagna, and Vasily and Viktor talked about defensive spellwork most of the time, which was both fascinating but completely apropos of nothing, as far as she could tell. At one point, she had asked a question without stopping to consider it, and both of them had taken it at face value, answering it thoughtfully and without rancor that she had entered their conversation without invitation.

What felt like several hours later, the entire team stood at some unspoken signal, leaving Hermione to scramble out of her chair and stand with them. Next to her, Viktor was still arguing with Vasily about the use of grey spellwork in both offensive and defensive tactics, but without pausing for breath, turned to her and told her, "I'll take you back to the pitch."

The idea of doing a Side-Along again made her stomach, now full of incredibly heavy and rich food, turn. She did not want to vomit up lunch (and six glasses of ginger ale, which Pavla kept bringing her and glaring at her until she started drinking it) on Viktor's feet again.

A friendly arm slung around her shoulders and pulled her tight. "I'll Side-Along her, Viktor, no worries," Clara offered cheerfully, and then whispered, "He's still pretty new with his Apparition license, so he's probably pants at Side-Alonging."

"It was my first time," Hermione replied in an equally low voice, shamefaced. "I've never done it before."

Clara winced. "That would do it, too, especially with a novice acting as the primary Apparator."

"I brought her, and I'll take her back." Viktor turned his full attention toward Clara, that infamous scowl beginning to form on his face. Idly, Hermione wondered if that expression was more his default than anything else. Sure, he could be moody and seemed easily riled, but he wasn't mad half so much as his expression suggested.

Behind Viktor, Pytor turned around to see what was going on that had Viktor using his pissy voice. Immediately, Clara made some kind of gesture with her hand, and Pyotr shook his head. She did it again more insistently, and then Pyotr wordlessly said something that looked suspiciously like, _you owe me_ before clapping a hand on Viktor's back. "Hey, sheep-for-brains," he said cheerfully. "You owe me for the last time I Side-Alonged your pissed self home after that game with the Germans."

Viktor half-turned to face Pyotr, his scowl melting off his face as a look of incredulity replaced it. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I'm saying I'm feeling _lazy_ , you idiot." He raised his voice so Pavla could hear his next statement. "Too much good food makes me a lazy sod."

Pavla, who was wandlessly levitating the used dishes off their table and sending them to the kitchen with the point of a finger, turned and glared at Pyotr balefully. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Vulchanov."

"On the contrary, my dear lady," Pyotr responded lightly, hauling Viktor out of the restaurant to the side street, "it gets me everywhere!" The door slammed shut behind the pair, and Hermione watched Viktor glare at Pyotr for a minute before grasping the Beater's arm. A moment later, the two twisted in an impossible fashion, accompanied by the tell-tale crack of Apparition.

Next to her, Clara looked at her expectantly, her eyes twinkling. "Shall we?"

Hermione swallowed. "I'd rather walk, I think. Or perhaps floo?" she asked hopefully, looking around for a tell-tale fireplace.

A friendly arm slung around her shoulders a moment later, and Clara tousled her hair playfully. "C'mon, Mia. I won't splinch you!"

"Splinch?" She felt herself go white, and Clara positively cackled at her expression, her laugh following them as they vanished into thin air. The trip back to the practice grounds was much easier than the trip from there, and the contents of her stomach remained firmly in place even as she gulped in a huge breath.

"Merlin, that's amazing," she breathed. "Why would anyone want to ride a broom if they could do that?"

Wryly, Clara responded, "Well, aside from the obvious…"

It took her a second before she made the connection and then she could have kicked herself. "Of course—I didn't mean —"

Clara clapped her on the back lightly, a friendly move. "I know, silly girl." She reached over and tugged on Hermione's braid. "Time to get back to work for both of us. I can't work off this lunch just gabbing away, you know." She patted her completely flat stomach. "I can feel it sitting there like a bludger in my stomach—the weight of lunch will drag me back to earth if I'm not careful." She cast a sidelong glance at Hermione, who rolled her eyes in response.

"I'll patch you right up if you do fall," she promised, and Clara hooted with laughter, pulling her in close and giving her a quick head rub. Yelping, Hermione tried to pull away to no avail, ultimately slipping underneath Clara's arm and scrambling away. "Such a Healer already," the Quidditch player grinned unrepentantly. "Don't start saying that to the guys, or they'll start coming to you for _everything_." She grabbed her hand and waved it at Hermione dramatically. "Mia, Mia, something terrible has happened. I've got—I've got—I've got a _splinter!"_ She thrust the offending appendage into Hermione's face. "Surely I'm going to _die_ from this." Clapping a hand over her heart, Clara swooned.

This was too much for Hermione, who giggled. Clara, hearing the noise, recovered miraculously from her injury and whooped, punching a victorious fist in the air. "I made you laugh! Just wait until I tell Pytor." She fairly rubbed her hands together in glee. "He's going to be so mad I did it first."

Hermione crossed her arms. "Do you two bet about _everything_?"

"Of _course_ not," Clara responded piously. "We would never do such an ill-mannered thing like bet on our own Quidditch games."

"But everything else?"

"Of course." Clara waved a hand negligently. "What is life without some excitement, you know?" She winked at Hermione. "I would think that you would agree, wouldn't you? After all, you did move here from England to apprentice with Madam Lazarov. That's not something just anyone would do."

"Oh, it's not like that," she tried to insist, but Clara laughed.

"Isn't it, though? When I was your age I was happily flying in the fields behind my parents' house with not a care in the world, and here you are, bravely learning under Kras." At Hermione's askance look, she laughed again, the friendly sound washing over Hermione warmly. "I love Kras, but she can certainly be tetchy. Don't let her sternness fool you. She has quite a warm heart underneath it all."

Kind of like Professor McGonagall, Hermione thought. The Transfiguration teacher could be rather stern and imposing at times, but when push came to shove, she was rather warm-hearted and protective of her students. The comparison made Hermione feel a little easier and not as concerned to go back to the Healer's Hall as they split up, and she was able to more easily bear the heavy weight of the Healer's whip like attention for the rest of the afternoon.

By the time the afternoon wound up, Hermione was ready and excited for the weekend. She hadn't gotten a lot of free time to explore so far since she had moved here, and the next few days offered the perfect opportunity to branch out and explore the open air market more. That bookstand she had seen with Sirius was still calling her name, and she resolved to go there first thing in the morning. Her parents had sent quite enough money in the letter Dumbledore had forwarded her, though the text was brief.

 _Bunny,_ her father had written in his slanting script,

_We hope you enjoy your summer in Bulgaria. We've told everyone about your apprenticeship with the Healer. Here is some money to last you for the summer._

_Daddy_

Not precisely the effusive praise she had wanted—had _always_ wanted, if she were to be strictly honest with herself—but she had learned long ago not to expect much more. At least they had sent her a letter, she consoled herself.

The house was quiet when she got back, and she was able to blissfully sit outside in the garden amongst the rioting flowers in the glow of the deepening afternoon sun. It was by far one of her most favorite places to relax and read a book, perhaps even preferred over the Hogwarts library. (If asked, she would deny she ever even thought that.) Her revision of the Healing texts Madam Lazarov had handed over to her a few days earlier was going slowly but well, and her mind devoured the knowledge. Sometimes she would stop and practice an incantation or murmur a spell, her lips forming around the new words and phrases, before continuing onwards.

Time passed in hops and skips until she was forced to stop due to lack of sunlight. She stood up, stretched, and made her way into the house, ready for dinner.

Halfway through the recipe for salad she had taken out of _The Housewitch's Guide to Easy Cooking_ , she heard a telltale crack in the front yard. Sirius had returned from wherever he had gone.

"Welcome home," she said absently as the door opened, frowning at a particular set of instructions. What the bloody hell did they mean in step seven?

Silence for a long moment, then Sirius' voice said weakly, "A little help, kitten?"

"Help with what?" she asked as she turned around. The question didn't need answering. Sirius, disguised as Magellan, was leaning heavily against the doorframe, his hand clutching his side and his bruised face pale as a Nearly Headless Nick.

Rushing towards him, wand already out and up, she exclaimed, "Good heavens! What happened to you? Can you walk, or do I need to levitate you to the couch?"

"I can walk." He waved off her offer of assistance but leaned on her arm as he made his way to the couch as she started a list of diagnostic spells Madam Lazarov had taught her. "I just met the wrong end of a few people's wands, that's all."

She raised a brow as the readings came back. "That's all, is it? Well, you've got several cracked or broken ribs, bruises all over your body, and an impacted spleen. I would beg to differ that it was a minor scrape," she said tartly. "Now sit still and don't say anything. I've only just learned these." And some of them she hadn't even gotten to practice because they were so new, but she didn't say that. It wouldn't do for both of them to doubt her.

Honestly, she wished she could take him somewhere, but it was too complicated, especially since he was here in disguise. And beside, she didn't even know where the closest hospital was. It was either her, or nobody, so she bent her head and grimly set herself to the task. He really was quite injured. The ribs worried her because if she didn't get them all the way healed, a fragment could potentially rupture something important. She couldn't simply vanish them and use Skele-Gro because critical organs would get displaced or crushed. He always had to be difficult, didn't he?

She wasn't sure how long she worked, only that magic flowed out of her in a steady stream. In between spells she looked up at his vitals, which were still hanging where she set them. They were improving, and eventually got to a place she felt comfortable with. Slowly, she drew down the last spell, staggering as exhaustion hit her. "I think you'll be alright, " she told him, wiping her hands on her trousers, and then realized he had passed out, most likely from pain, at some point.

Well.

"I suppose that's that, then," she muttered dryly as she went to the basement, where she was brewing the polyjuice potion and kept her other stock of practice healing potions. She had only ever kept the ones that turned out textbook perfect, so she assumed they were good for use.

She swallowed as she swept up a few potions, not wanting to think about how many hypotheticals she had practiced on a living human body today. There were so many steps in the learning process she had skipped today, and getting even one thing wrong could have done grave injury to Sirius. She hadn't had anyone to watch over her either, or to take over if things had gone wrong.

The enormity of what she had done washed over her. She sagged for a moment on the stairs back up, bowing her head. Sirius could have died, and it would have been all her fault. Her patient, her responsibility.

"I'm not prepared for this," she murmured, the words reverberating in her ears. "I'm really, really, not prepared for this."

Thank Merlin she was a swotty know-it-all, but even that only took her so far. It couldn't substitute for years of knowledge and practical application, but it seemed that she was going to have to fly by the seat of her pants.

She could only hope that he didn't have another 'that's all' moment again.

After falling into bed completely exhausted and sleeping dreamlessly, she woke up still feeling drained. It was nearly ten in the morning, much later than her usual time to wake up, but she figured she deserved it after having a full day at work and then performing an emergency healing that had depleted a lot of her magical stores.

After checking in on Sirius and eating a quick breakfast of toast and jam, Hermione prepared to go to the market. While her original mission to explore the Square stood, she also now needed to stock up on potions ingredients so she could brew an additional batch of the potions she had used on Sirius last night.

The market was just as exuberantly alive as it had been the last time she visited, throngs of people visiting the open air market. Everywhere she looked there were places she wanted to visit with new and exotic things to look at. She was lured to a stall manned by a lanky old wizard, who gave her one of the tastiest desserts she'd ever had. He had laughed at her look of wide-eyed wonder after she took her first bite and given her another one for the road. "You're too skinny," he had insisted, handing the wrapped pastry over and refusing any money in return. "You must eat so you can grow up to become a powerful witch."

Still munching on her treat, Hermione continued on her tour of the square, stopping to look in the windows of several stores. One, a Quidditch store, caught her eye, and she mentally noted down the name so she could return later on and see if there was anything Ron or Harry might like. A small bookstore next to it, simply named _Irena's Tomes & Scrolls_, beckoned at her, and she stopped in there next.

The books were absolutely fascinating. A lot of them were copies of works she had seen at _Flourish and Blotts,_ but there were so many she had never seen before, ranging from the care of magical creatures local to Eastern Europe to _The Lore of Herbs Oftyn Seen in the Bulgarian Wyldes._ There were books on ancient customs, Wizarding culture, circle magic, home spells, runic circles, and more. Everywhere she looked she saw something of interest, but there was one book, a slim volume bound in faded green leather, that made her frown and pull it off the shelf. _The Arte of the Darke: Level One._ Level one? How could something off limits be broken into levels? Almost furtively, she nudged the book open, scanning the contents quickly.

"Interested in the Dark Arts?" A voice came from behind her. Hermione jumped guiltily, turning and hiding the book behind her as she faced an older woman with black hair neatly braided back in a crown.

"I—er—I was just looking," she stammered. The book seemed to burn in her hand. She couldn't get in trouble for merely looking at it, could she?

The woman propped her hand on her hip. "Of course you were," she said crisply. "What year are you? Fifth year? Sixth?"

"Fourth year," Hermione responded with her school year automatically, before her mind caught up. "Wait. The Darks Arts is taught at Durmstrang?"

Briefly, the proprietress frowned, then her brow cleared. "Ah, I didn't place the accent for a moment. English, are you? So you attend Hogwarts. That explains your reaction. Yes, here in Eastern Europe the Dark Arts aren't regarded the same way as you Western Europeans think about it. Here, we think about the Dark Arts as just that—another art to be taught. Just as all crafts have considerations to it, so do the Dark Arts."

Nibbling on her lip as her mind raced, she responded, "I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"Think about it this way, _mila_ ," the woman said kindly. "In Potions class, you can learn to make potions. There are many potions that are harmless if administered correctly, yet a traditionally harmless potion can still be used to kill. Take, for instance, the Calming Draught. Too much of it, and you can kill someone via overdose or cause lasting brain damage. However, the right dose applied creates calming effects that slows the nervous system and allows someone relief. The Dark Arts are similar, although it boils down to three things: intent, your ability to control the spell or object once you have begun interacting with it or channelling it, and your affinity."

"Intent? Aren't you simply intending to cast with your wand?"

The proprietress shook her head. "Think bigger. What are you intending to do with the spell you cast? Good or harm?"

A lightbulb went off in her head, and she exhaled. " _Oh_. Oh, I see. The intent to do harm, versus the intent to do good to someone via the spell."

"Precisely. And that is why we have classes at Durmstrang on the Dark Arts. While you learn about the spells, potions, and charms, and objects traditionally classified as harmful, there is an art to using your intent to master the Arts as you intend. We do not shy away from them, as they can be very powerful tools when used correctly. And yes," she allowed, "some spells or items are classified purely as Dark, but that is just how some things are classified purely as light, like the Patronus charm. However, most things are not so clear cut."

"I see," Hermione said slowly. "So this—" she held the book up "—would be the primer on the Dark Arts?"

She nodded, eyes glinting. "I do not think it wise for you to take back with you to England, but I also think it perhaps even more unwise not to learn about."

Well, she never was one to disagree with the 'knowledge is power' argument, considering it had largely guided her actions for the past three years. She thanked the proprietress (who seemed disinclined to discuss the subject much further once she explained enough to pique her interest), collected a few more books, and left the store with her coin purse lighter but her sack quite a bit heavier. The weight of the books felt comforting and familiar, although she felt guilty somehow, for the book on the Dark Arts was neatly tucked in there amongst the more innocuous books she so favored.

As she made her way out of the store, she was suddenly knocked to the ground in a sudden collision of bodies. The cobblestone scraped her hands and knees, and she knew she was going to have a good bruise or two. As she pushed herself off the ground, the person who ran into her was already apologizing, one hand helping her up by the elbow.

"I am so sorry. I wasn't looking when I came out of _Rakov's Racing Brooms_ and I must have—Mia?" came a familiar voice, and Hermione, startled, looked up directly into Viktor Krum's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I read this chapter I find a little something to be dissatisfied with, but I have at last thrown in the towel and proclaimed it Acceptable. *shrug*
> 
> I recently discovered (because I am idiotic and didn't understand AO3) that this fic has over a 100 subscriptions across here and FF.net. I was totally blown away and humbled to know you all are enjoying it that much.
> 
> Additionally, I have completed my outline of this fic. It will be 41 chapters (if I am counting correctly. Math is not my strong suit, and I’ve already miscounted twice. Lol), and you will see that reflected in the chapter stats.
> 
> Also, I've got a planning session with my alpha tomorrow on book four. All I'm going to say for now is that it's going to be hella dramatic :) Please prepare yourselves.


	13. Chapter Twelve

The chances of seeing Mia of all people in the middle of the Square while she was hauling a load of books out of the bookstore seemed astronomically low to him, and yet, there she stood, her hands and knees visibly scraped from where she'd fallen. "Viktor!" she greeted, steadfastly ignoring what had just occurred, "how good to see you!"

"It's good to see you as well," he returned graciously, his response just as stilted as her flustered opening had been. "I'm sorry for knocking you down like that. I wasn't looking where I was going."

She waved it aside. "Don't worry about it at all."

He nodded his head, and they both stood there in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment, unsure what to say to each other.

Clearly reaching for something to say, she queried, "Are you ready for the scrimmage game tomorrow? I heard that Islov is bringing in one of the teams that lost in the qualifiers for you all to practice against."

"As ready as I can be," he replied, a bit relieved to be on familiar ground. "There's only so much I can do to prepare. Each snitch is different, so I focus mainly on doing a lot of practice runs with different snitches and agility training."

She tilted her head, intrigued. "How is each snitch different?"

Hm...He pursed his mouth, trying to think of the best way to describe it. "The easiest way to explain it is that they have a different personality. Some go faster than others. Some prefer to shoot high and go low, while others go more left and right. The hover time also varies."

"So they're all unique, then, even in how they move?"

" _Da._ It's impossible to predict how they'll act, but I hope that if I have enough exposure to different movement patterns, I'll at least have some way to anticipate what they'll do just from experience."

"It's almost like Arithmancy," she mused. "Calculations, predictions, that sort of thing."

Enthused, he replied, "Precisely! It is an excellent comparison. Of course, I may be biased, because it's one of my favorite subjects, just behind Charms and Herbology." He grinned, and she smiled back.

"I've only just started Arithmancy classes," she confided, "since I'll only be going into my fourth year, but it was my favorite class last year."

Only in fourth year? He frowned. "How can you be an apprentice if you're so young? You're what, thirteen, if you're going into fourth year?" But she didn't look thirteen...she looked older than that, the baby fat on her face thinning out, her body developed more than a girl that had just hit puberty should be.

"Almost fifteen," she corrected without further explanation. "My Headmaster—Dumbledore, at Hogwarts?" she added, and he nodded, indicating he had heard of him. "Well, he, and maybe Madam Pomfrey, our Healer at school, knew Madam Lazarov, and asked her if I could apprentice since I had expressed interest in it. I can't believe I'm actually here sometimes," she said with a laugh, shaking her head. "It's a bit unbelievable, really. She's such an incredible Healer. Her treatises on the properties of lacewing in Healing potions is already a bit of a legend, and the research she's doing now is _fascinating,_ though she really doesn't talk about it as much as I wish she would."

Her enthusiasm was contagious. "She is something else," he allowed, "though don't let her personality fool you. She's one of the biggest gossips around."

Hermione stopped short, looking at him in disbelief. " _No_."

He nodded. "One of the worst," he confirmed. "Clara and Pyotr, too, but those two are competitive about it."

She smiled and shook her head, hefting her books higher in her arms as they walked. The sight of her doing so completely distracted him. "Let me carry those for you," he offered.

She bit her lip. "I can carry them. I'm strong."

"I know that," he told her, exasperated, "but you're smaller than me, so it's easier for me to carry them. Besides, my mother would kill me if I didn't, and it's highly probable that someone is going to see this and tell her that I wasn't doing my duty." It wasn't completely untrue—his mother _would_ kill him, but—the probability of someone telling Milena that her son was being unchivalrous wasn't that high.

He wanted to, though, that was the crux of the matter. She was clearly used to lugging books around, considering the comfortable way she had stacked them and then nestled them in her arms, but he could see the hard edges cutting into her pale skin and knew he could bear the load more easily. "Please," he added quietly. "I want to."

Looking at him out of the corner of her eyes, she made a considering face and finally relented, transferring the pile into his arms. "Thank you," she relented, a slight blush dusting her cheeks. "They were heavy. But I could have carried them!" she hurried to add, bound and determined to establish her independence, though she'd already said it before.

He chose to ignore it. "You're welcome," he returned. "What are they all about?"

"No," she started to shake her head, then stopped, and amended, "well, one of them. The rest of them are various books on healing, and one is about Bulgaria and its culture." An uncharacteristically shy look in his direction, then a further explanation: "I haven't seen a lot of the country, and I don't really know much about it, you see. I...like knowing things." She said the last in a low tone, almost as if it were something to be embarrassed about.

"Why are you ashamed about your need to know things?" he asked, truly baffled. "I am the same way. I need to know why, always, about everything. It drove _maika_ crazy, but she always answered."

Mia—he couldn't stop calling her that ever since Clara had declared that as long as she was in Bulgaria, she was not the English Hermione but rather the Bulgarian Mia—twisted her hands together in the absence of anything to grab hold of. "I...well. At school, you see, I'm not exactly popular," she admitted after a long moment. "I get teased for being a know-it-all. It's not a bad thing, I know, but sometimes it just hurts. I didn't really have any friends at the beginning until my two best friends saved me from a troll."

" _A troll?"_ he repeated, incredulous, and her nod this time was firmer, her response a bit more confident now that they weren't talking about her social status at school. To think he had gotten distracted from that, though, would be a mistake. He hadn't forgotten at all, and silently revised his opinion of Hogwarts downwards. Schools that didn't encourage knowledge didn't really deserve to be schools at all.

Laughing, she responded, "Yes, a troll!" and proceeded to outline the episode. This led to him sharing the time he, Friedrich, Sacha, and Maksim had accidentally run afoul of a scream of _topielacs_ , the souls of those who had drowned, in their third year, and had to fight their way out. By the time he had finished relating the tale, they had walked back from the Square and come to a tee that branched off onto a smaller road.

"My house is that way. Mia tilted her head in that direction. "Um, would you...do you want to come for dinner? Neither I or Magellan are particularly inspired cooks, but if average food is acceptable, you're welcome to join us."

He paused, taken aback at the invitation. "I would like that," he assented slowly, finding that, yes, he truly would like to very much indeed. She was smart and dryly funny in a way that had him laughing awhile after the joke had been told, and she seemed interested in knowing _him_ , Viktor, rather than Viktor Krum, Quidditch star. There hadn't been any coy mentions of bloodlines, or sly remarks about her availability, or mentions about his marks at school or prowess on the pitch. Instead, she asked questions about Bulgaria and _topielacs_ , eyes gleaming bright with interest.

Yes, he would very much enjoy having dinner with her. More than that, he would very much like to be her friend. How interesting that things could change so quickly given the right series of events, he thought wryly on their interactions over the past few weeks.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Well," she said, looking fairly surprised that he had accepted her invitation, "that's settled, then. This way." She set off down the road and he followed her quite a ways down it until they came to a pleasant brick house with a low fence in front and a large garden exploding with color on the far side.

In short order, Mia had him ensconced in the living room, disappearing upstairs with the promise she'd only be a moment. "Magellan has been sick since last night," she explained, "and I want to check on him."

Reflexively, he stood up from his seat on the comfortable couch. "I can leave," he offered, his good manners ingrained in him. "I don't want to impose."

Holding up a hand, she shook her head. "No, no. Really, it's fine. And besides, I invited you. I got so caught up talking to you that I….actually, I quite forgot for a moment that he was ill." Looking abashed, she said, "Let me just make sure that he has everything he needs."

With a quick glance back at him and a small nibble on her lower lip, she disappeared, feet lightly pattering up the staircase. He heard a door open and close, and then there was silence.

He took the time to examine the living room. For all that it was clearly not their permanent home, he could still spy two distinct personalities scattered throughout the room, from one pair of loafers set next to a pair of beige flats by the door. There were several small piles of books scattered over various surfaces, while a large satchel leaned against the small loveseat. A pale yellow quilt was neatly folded on a wooden chair next to the fireplace, and a small bunch of flowers—likely from the side garden he had seen—in a slightly chipped blue vase sat on the coffee table.

The only thing missing was photos, but considering his parents' house had only one or two in the public spaces. He had a variety in his living room, a private space, but in the public areas it was similarly barren. He didn't owe anyone any more insight into his life than he decided to give, especially considering how much they already scrutinized his every move.

Mia's light pattering steps heralded her return, and he looked over at her as she drew up next to him, slightly breathless. "Is he all right, then?" He asked more out of politeness than true curiosity.

Her nod was quick. "Much better than he was last night, thank Merlin," she said fervently. "I don't know what I would've done if he hadn't started improving. I don't even know where the nearest hospital is, which, really I should. It's not like I could just floo to St Mungo's."

"Vaptzarov Etka," he supplied, taken aback at just exactly how adrift she was here. Not even knowing the name of the hospital? And it wasn't as if she had a network of friends or family she could call on to get instant help, either.

She quirked a smile at him, pushing an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Thanks. I'll definitely make a note of it."

A thought occurred to him. "Is that why you were out of sorts today?"

"Out of sorts?"

"You weren't quite yourself today." During their walk, he had seen fleeting moments where she had had a pensive mein, and her fiery personality had been somewhat diminished.

She huffed a laugh. "As if you know me well enough to say that." He arched a brow at the somewhat acerbic, albeit true statement as she continued, "Yes, that's why. I was worried about him, but he insisted I go to work and go pick up my books anyways. Daft man," she shook her head affectionately. "Doesn't do well with hovering—which I _wasn't,_ but he says I was."

The defensive note in her voice made him swallow a smile that unexpectedly sprang to his lips. "Has he always been a bad patient?"

"Well—I, hm, yes," she stammered, a slow flush creeping over her cheeks. "I think so, but S-Magellan can be dramatic, so I can never tell how bad he's actually feeling. Yesterday he did actually pass out, so it seemed fairly bad. I'm not quite sure about his pain tolerance, though."

She certainly thought a lot of things about her guardian, but she seemed less than certain, which was curious in and of itself. He was hesitant to pry, however. A girl and a lone male guardian raised several questions that he had no place in asking, considering how short their acquaintance was.

"My brother is normally very contained, but when he gets ill, he turns into a complete child," he shared, thinking of Kosta demanding thing after thing from the house elves, especially Enzo. "He's so needy."

"So you have siblings?" she asked, and then added, almost as an afterthought, "I have to put dinner on. You can come into the kitchen if you'd like. There's a nice table that looks over the garden you can sit at, if you'd like."

That casually, she invited him into a purely familial space. A little taken aback at the casual intimacy, he followed her into the kitchen as he confirmed, "Yes, just Kosta. He's older than me by a little more than six years. And you?"

Mia shook her head, curls flying around her head as she began summoning various ingredients and implements from around the kitchen. "It's just me," she said with a little half shrug, "but I'm used to it, and I'd be sad if my brother or sister turned out muggle instead of magical like I did, since I wouldn't get to see them very often."

Absently, he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling fine hairs prickle against his palm. "You're muggleborn?"

She chopped somewhat viciously at the tomato in front of her. "Is that a problem?"

"No," he answered quickly, a palm coming up to stave off any forthcoming attack. "I was just curious." It did explain her invitation into the kitchen, however, and he relaxed a little, knowing she wasn't as likely to be trying to send some kind of signal he would have to brush off.

Sighing, she stopped chopping and looked over at him, a wry look on her face. "Sorry. I'm a bit...sensitive about it. Some people at school have been, well, let's just say they haven't been exactly welcoming."

A large contingent of Durmstrang would think along the same lines, he thought, watching her dump some kind of meat—he guessed chicken—into a skillet while waving pasta into a pot of boiling water with her wand. They thought that muggles were inferior, that they would never come to the same caliber as those from wizarding families. And not only those from Durmstrang thought this, he knew. It was a society-wide issue, one that apparently also held sway even in England. He supposed that wizarding societies across the world weren't all so different, though the Americans and Africans were generally more accepting than others.

Quidditch had easily disabused him of the notion. Some of the finest players he flew with, and against, were muggleborns. It was hard to say that a certain subset of people were inferior when they had regularly handed your arse to you on the pitch. Besides, Zograf, and Alexei for that matter, would have hexed him blind if he had ever so much as thought it. He mentioned as much to Hermione (omitting the thought that Zograf would leave him a quivering heap), and watched her brows furrow thoughtfully.

"I hadn't thought of the impact Quidditch might have on issues like that," she said slowly. In front of her, the meat steamed on the skillet, and she added a sauce to it, setting the contents to a slow stir with a wave of her wand. "Really, I hadn't given much thought to Quidditch at all before I came here. One of my friends is the Seeker for our house at Hogwarts, so I've gone to the games and watched his games, but I...well, I thought it was rather a waste of my time, if I'll be honest."

Her bald statement made him further warm towards her. Her honesty made her refreshing, and the fact that she wasn't afraid to say she didn't know much about the sport he had dedicated most of his life to and didn't care to know much made him respect her. "It's a sport with surprising depth," he offered, and she nodded.

"I can see that now that I've been here for a bit. Watching you all practice day in and out has certainly been eye-opening to the complexities of the sport, and…" she hesitated, biting down on her lip before adding, "Madam Lazarov has a playbook that I've leafed through when I've had a moment."

"A what?" he asked, taken aback.

Hermione nodded, a small smile growing into a larger one at the dumbfounded expression on his face. "A playbook. I think… I think she might have made it herself, but I don't know. Is she allowed one on her own?"

Slowly he shook his head. "No, she's not. Unless...well, she could have convinced Clara to give her one. The two of them are thick as thieves."

It was Mia's turn to be surprised, and she turned to shoot him an incredulous look as she drained the pasta and mixed it in with the contents in the skillet. " _Clara?"_

He leaned forward and set his forearms on his thighs, hands clasped between his legs. "Unexpected, isn't it?" He smirked. "It seems unlikely, I know, but I've never seen two more different people get along as well as they do."

Mia made a considering face down at the skillet. "I suppose so. Well, no, I take it back. I'm friends with Ron, and he and I couldn't possibly be any more different."

"The friend on the Quidditch team?"

"No, that's Harry. Ron's our other best friend. They're the ones who rescued me from the troll. Didn't I say their names?"

He replied in the negative, and she shrugged. "Well, that's them. They're my best friends—mostly my only friends, really, aside from a few others." Setting the two plates on the table, she asked, "Something to drink? I don't have much aside from water and lemonade since I'm not old enough to drink, but I think Magellan keeps something around the house."

"Just water, thank you. I typically don't drink during the season." She nodded and filled two glasses, coming back and sitting down across from him.

"I know it's not much," she said with a self-conscious look, "but it's what I had been planning on making before I knew I'd be having company. I made a lot extra since I figured you ate a lot, what with exercising all day."

He looked down at the plate of food and thought he could have eaten it all and easily half more. "It looks delicious," he assured her.

"I hope it is," she replied fervently. "I haven't had much chance to practice my cooking, since Dad cooks when I'm at home and the house elves cook at school."

The fact that she could cook at all impressed him. He lived alone but would have starved if it weren't for Mippy, who had come with him when he'd moved out of Krum Manor at the end of fifth year when he'd started with the National Team.

"I'm sure it's wonderful," he assured her, and took a large mouthful to prove it.

"Well, isn't _this_ cozy," a voice drawled from the doorway, and Viktor, with a mouthful of whatever absolutely ridiculously delicious food Hermione had made, turned to face the newcomer, his free hand dropping to the wand holstered at his side.

"Merlin, it's good to see you up! How are you feeling?" Mia exclaimed, hurrying past him even as Viktor was trying to figure out who the man was. She embraced him in a quick but heartfelt hug, and Vitkor was confused to see her guardian—Quickfoot—stiffen before he relaxed and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Oh! I'm so sorry!" she rushed out suddenly, releasing him like he had caught on fire. "I wasn't thinking. Did I hurt you?"

He laughed. "I'm feeling much better now," he reassured her, "in no small part due to you and your rather miraculous healing skills."

She brushed it aside like it was so much nothing, and Viktor thought it interesting to see how she reacted to praise. She'd barely heard it, too busy barreling forward to register it. Or, he thought, seeing the glint in her eyes, perhaps she was pleased but chose not to make a big scene out of it.

"How are the ribs?" she asked, throwing up a scan he'd seen her struggle with before with ease and frowning as she looked at it.

Quickfoot flicked a sidelong glance his way. "They're fine, Hermione. Could we perhaps have this little conversation later?" he asked pointedly, nodding his head at Viktor.

And just like that, the confident, reassured girl transformed back into a young, uncertain one. "Of course. I was just worried," she muttered, ducking her head before facing Viktor and apologizing. "I'm rather sorry about my rudeness. I tend to get focused on things, sometimes."

He smiled at that. It was something he could relate to easily. "I can understand that. Put a Charms text or a Snitch in front of me, and I'm completely dedicated to it."

"Good Godric," her guardian muttered as he went to the cool box. "Two bookworms in the house. Moony, where are you when I need you?"

Mia choked on a laugh at Quickfoot's comment—perhaps an inside joke?—and her smile brightened further as she fairly bubbled with sudden enthusiasm, "Speaking of books, want to see where I like to read? We've got this mad garden outside. It's beautiful. There's a couple benches under this tree that make it perfect."

Viktor nodded. He'd hardly seen anyone look so thrilled about a spot to read before in his life. If it was as good as her food, he'd be amply rewarded by that alone, let alone the chance to spend a minute or more with the bright, vivacious witch. She was turning out to be better company than he'd had in some time. As he followed her out into the late afternoon sunlight, he thought about what a pleasant, and unexpected surprise she was turning out to be.

Yes, he thought, as she turned with an eager expression and gestured at a plain, unremarkable bench sitting underneath the sweeping shade of a tree, very pleasant indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friyay (or really closer to Saturday, but semantics and all that)! I am super excited to tell you that I just wrote the last chapter of the summer arc of this fic. I kind of love it, though knowing me I will rewrite it like seventeen times considering what an important chapter it is. Now I just have to finish everything in between it, though the end is in sight. I'm thinking the first part of this fic will be about...eh...135-150K? Ish. I'm at 115K and I've still got quite a bit to write. Although, naughty me, I have already started on some scenes from Goblet of Fire. I can't control myself. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> As a note: I have updated the summary for this fic because when I originally wrote it, I was only 40K in and had a much different idea for the fic than what it has become. The old summary is accurate in terms of the elements being there, but the focus on other elements has changed enough that I felt the summary should change. Honestly, it's all window dressing. The fic, at its heart, remains the same.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

A few days after Hermione had accidentally hosted an international Quidditch star, one who she had disliked only days before, for dinner, she faced yet another unexpected hurdle. The Dark Arts book lay quietly on her white quilted bed pane, and she stared back at it. The book was quite a...well, quite a surprise. Whether it was good that she had (quite voraciously) read a book banned in England remained to be seen, but it had been enlightening, and it had made her think harder than she had ever thought she'd thought before.

By the time she had turned the last page, she knew exactly what she wanted to do. The Dark Arts were both beautiful and deadly. Wield a spell with ill intent, and the wounds were gruesome, their scars permanent and often grotesque. Scars like Harry's and Viktor's. Scars that, in all likelihood, represented something acutely traumatic in someone's lives.

Scars that she could help get rid of.

When she approached Madam Lazarov that afternoon, Hermione felt like she was going into her final exams without revising for them. Her mouth was dry, her hands cold. "Madam Lazarov?" The words came out in a whisper, and she tried again. "Madam Lazarov?"

The healer looked up from her patient notes, those incredibly piercing eyes of hers meeting her own. "Yes?"

"I was wondering—well, I was hoping…" she paused, then rushed out, "can you help me learn to cure Dark injuries?"

Madam Lazarov stilled, then slowly put the sheaf of parchment down. "Why," she said deliberately, "would you want to know that?"

Hermione licked her lips. "It's just that my friend Harry has one, and then I saw them on the other players, and I was reading a book that the Durmstrand students read— _The Arte of the Darke: Volume One?—_ and it told me about how those injuries can last forever and cause so much suffering on the ones who they are cast on. And so, you see." She shrugged. "I thought, well, if I am going to heal, I should heal those who might need it most."

During her explanation, Madam Lazarov's expression had slowly changed from that of someone evaluating a suddenly destabilized potion to one of open consideration. "Did you know," she began, lacing her fingers together, "that when Poppy Pomfrey approached me about taking an apprentice who had not even taken her first set of qualifying exams yet, that I told her no?"

At Hermione's surprised expression, Madam Lazarov nodded. "I said no, and Poppy insisted. She told me you were the brightest witch to pass through Hogwarts' halls in twenty years, and when I waved her off, she told me all about you. Yes, Miss Granger, I know about your encounter with the troll, and about your encyclopaedic knowledge about potions that let you get through the Potion Master's challenge. I also know about your ability to brew an illegal potion in questionable circumstances, as well as the..hm, unfortunate results. How Poppy managed to reverse that, I would be very curious to know about, but that is neither here nor there."

She arched a brow at Hermione, who was fidgeting slightly at her recitation. "I also know about the basilisk, and perhaps most relevant to this conversation, I know about the Time-Turner."

"You do?"

Madam Lazarov rose from her chair and prowled closer to Hermione. "I do. Now, Miss Granger, what can you tell me about a Time-Turner?"

_It feels like a rush of euphoria when you use it. Every turn makes you want to turn again. Every hour used entrenches it in your psyche. Every stolen moment is a moment you give back in your magic, and you don't care because you feel like you can conquer the world, even though you are losing everything that defines you as yourself to the golden sands of time._

"It's considered Dark," she said at last, setting aside her own experiences and feelings, which she would never share. "The _Arte of the Darke_ mentioned Time-Turners in its 'Objects Moste Vile' chapter, which confused me, considering I know the Ministry of Magic in England has an entire Department dedicated to it."

The older witch rolled her eyes. "Don't get me started on the hypocrisy of the English Ministry," she told her dryly. "Hermione, the reason why they study it is to see if they can rid the Time-Turner of its terrible and deadly effects. It is labeled a dangerous and dark object because it latches onto your magic and drains you of it while convincing you to use it again and again. It is fueled not only by your magic but the magic of other unfortunate witches and wizards before it. They are parasitic and often lead to the death of its users. Which is why I find it very _curious_ , to put it politely, that the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress of one of the most acclaimed schools in the Wizarding world would see fit to hand it to you."

Although she had known the effects, and had, in fact, _experienced_ these effects, hearing those side effects connected with Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall sent Hermione's mind reeling. "I'm not quite sure why they would," she said softly. Why _had_ they given it to her when they had known its dangers? Furthermore, why hadn't they exercised more oversight? What had they been thinking?

"I can only postulate why," Madam Lazarov continued, "but Poppy warned me in quite an enraged manner about what state to expect you in when you arrived. I did some checks on you when you showed up the first day, and I was unsurprised to see the holes in your magical stores. What I _was_ surprised to see was that there were signs of healing. You, this little English girl had managed to break the addiction of the Time-Turner all on your own. Not only that, you managed to control and wield it, which I find very interesting indeed."

She paused for a moment, as if deliberating, then asked, "Did your text tell you about affinities at all?"

Hermione frowned. "Affinities?" It hadn't been in her text, so why did that sound familiar? Ah. The bookshop owner had mentioned it in passing along with intent, but she hadn't expanded on the subject as she had with the other.

Krasmira steepled her fingers together. "In Wizarding society, many families are considered Light or Dark, while a few are considered Grey, or in between. This is not a matter of inherent evil or goodness, as most like to say, but rather a matter of affinity. Some familial lines have historically been more aligned to Lighter arts, while others are more easily able to wield and manipulate the Darker ones. Traditionally, this Darker affinity, or ability, has flowed down Pureblooded lines without pause, while the Lighter affinities have been seeded out amongst Purebloods and half bloods alike. This may be due to the fact that the Darker lineages viewed the power and extreme skill needed to adequately channel the darker arts and remain uncorrupted as sacrosanct, and so did not marry outside of each other, while those who wielded the complementary skillset were less zealous."

Rubbing her brow, Hermione said slowly, "So some Pureblood families are totally Dark because they didn't intermarry outside of each other, while the Lighter families just went out and married whoever they liked?"

Madam Lazarov nodded. "Correct."

"But what about me? I'm not a Pureblood or a half-blood. I'm—" " _just a mudblood, Granger!" "—_ just a muggleborn."

Standing, Madam Lazarov rested a hand on her desk. "I am well aware. Many half-bloods and even some Purebloods are inherently Grey, meaning they have no strong affinity either way. While that makes their skillsets more varied and thus their potential to work within the wider world greater, they likely won't be able to channel spells, work with objects, or interact with creatures at the extreme ends of the spectrum. They are, in a word, too firmly stuck in the middle. However, there are some half-bloods and some muggleborns who, even without a direct lineage to an ancient, 'unsullied' family," she used inverted quotes, "that are naturally affinitized regardless of that fact. You, it appears, are one of those."

She reared back in surprise, her hand touching her chest. "Me?"

"Yes, you. You see, Miss Granger, you should not have been able to master a Time-Turner as you did, due to the effects we have already previously mentioned, but you did. However, the fact of the matter is that you should not have been able to wield it in the first place at all. Time-Turners are inherently Dark due to their nature. I mentioned the Ministry has a department dedicated to understanding them. What I did not mention is that many believe they are trying to strip the Dark magic out of it and replace it with something more neutral so that all may wield it, not just those with Dark affinities.

"And so," she paused, tilting her head to the side, "that brings us back to you. A young, muggleborn witch, one firmly aligned with a slew of Lighter allies, that has a Dark affinity and wishes to heal. A paradox. Of course, witches and wizards with Dark affinities have become Healers since time immemorial, although I will admit it rare. I find it very interesting indeed that you have naturally been drawn to the area in which you are inherently stronger. I wonder very strongly indeed if you would be able to make breakthroughs _because_ you are able to better understand the inherent complexities of Darker curses and spells and the like. And that, Miss Granger, is why I will allow you to not only work with me as a Healer's apprentice but to also work with me as my research apprentice."

Despite the fact that her mind was still reeling from the entirely new worldview that had just been set upon her, a tendril of excitement shot through her. "You're going to make me your apprentice _and_ your research assistant?" she squeaked.

She smiled outright this time. "Yes, I am. I have seen enough of you in the last weeks to know you are capable, and I have seen your compassion. That, coupled with the fact that you desire to _know_ for the sake of knowing and that you yourself have experience with the subject area in which you want to work with—as a victim yourself, nonetheless—makes you a viable candidate in my opinion. Besides," she sniffed, "at your age, you won't hardly have a bad habit for me to break you of. I find that exercise so very tedious."

"So….you'll teach me how to cure Dark injuries?" The idea of being able to return to Harry and say a spell that would get rid of the scar that stood for one of the worst, if not _the_ worst, days of his life seemed almost miraculous.

Giving an eloquent shrug, Madam Lazarov replied, "There are some things we cannot fix, but most things we can at least partially mend. That is what I will teach, and that is what you will help me discover. However, this is a hard road that you want to walk. Are you sure you do not wish to begin with something better suited to your age?"

Hermione huffed and tugged her over robe straight. "If you've experienced the things I've experienced, I feel as though my 'age' is irrelevant. Actually, it's also documented incorrectly after this last year. By my count, I'm nearly fifteen. But that's not particularly relevant, I suppose. I would argue that my maturity, however, is, and that, I think, is more than up for the task. I am willing—and wanting—to travel down this path."

"Very well, Miss Granger," Madam Lazarov said, "although, I suppose if we are to be formally Master and Apprentice, as this arrangement is working out, you should call me Mistress Lazarov."

Somehow, being granted that permission meant more than being told to call her Krasmira. She beamed, feeling as though her heart might burst.

"Mistress Lazarov," she rolled it around on her tongue, and felt it very fitting indeed. "Mistress Lazarov, what will we be doing today?"

"My Apprentice," her eyes shone with rare approval, "I thought you would never ask."

And with that, they went to work. Almost everything proceeded as normal during the morning, although when they broke for lunch, Madam—no, _Mistress_ Lazarov disappeared into her office and returned with a stack of books and scrolls.

"Reading these will provide you with a basic idea of the current theories behind healing Dark injuries, "she told Hermione. "A lot of these will reference Healing charms, enchantments, and potions that you will not know about. Write questions that you have, and we will discuss them as you make your way through the texts. While I expect you to read these promptly, I do not expect you to read these in lieu of the other supplemental reading we have discussed."

Hermione nodded vigorously. "I would never do that, of course. Besides, the other texts are absolutely fascinating. I've particularly enjoyed Higurashi's _A Treatise on Traumatic Injuries,_ although I did have some doubts as to whether his postulation about the use of a counter wand movement combined with Diedrick Rakowsky's blood clotting paste would produce a more efficacious and quicker clotting time."

Mistress Krasmira quirked a brow. "Do you, now?" She held out a hand as if to say, _go on._

"Yes, I do!" She began rummaging around in her sack for the book in question. "You see," she continued, now enthused, "I read in _Battlefields Most Bloody: A Healer's Guide to Treating Wartime Wounds_ , that using a figure eight wand movement is proven to be—"

"Kras! Kras!" Clara burst in the door, and both healer and apprentice looked towards the door, instantly on alert for trouble. Their caution proved unfounded only moments later as Clara bounded towards them energetically, braid swinging behind her. "Did you hear about Ivanka and Leonid," she asked breathlessly.

The Healer's eyes sparked, and she leaned forward. "No. Did they—?"

Clara nodded enthusiastically. "And they—"

Her eyebrows waggled and Mistress Lazarov's lips pursed together. "Apprentice Granger," she said, "I think it's best we revisit this conversation for another time. After all, it is time for lunch." She handed the scrolls and books over to Hermione, and after a brief admonition to take care of them, swept out of the room, head bent towards Clara's as they continued their tête-à-tête.

As they left the room, Hermione heard Clara say, "Oh, and Apprentice Granger, _hm?_ "

Bemused, Hermione stared after them, her arms wrapped around the materials Mistress Lazarov had unceremoniously given to her. The fact that the Healer and Chaser were rather avid gossipers and rather good friends as well was something she never would have expected. It just went to show that she couldn't judge a book by its cover. Every day she discovered more and more about the people she was working with—and the person she was living with.

She bit her lip. Nobody was turning out to be who they seemed, and everyone knew more than they said. How she wished desperately that she had someone to ask for advice! It took several days for letters to get back to her, and she still had to use the International Owl Office to post her replies if Hedwig or Errol weren't up to the task of waiting for her to pen a response. She really needed to get her own owl.

Well, being alone didn't _really_ matter, did it? She'd been alone before, and she'd been okay. It hadn't been fun, but she had made it through. Besides, she had a lot of new material to get through before she could really begin on this new path she'd found herself on.

Books and cleverness, she thought, gripping her armful tightly. Books and cleverness.

Work didn't stop for Hermione once she left the stadium for the day, her sack bulging with her new treasures. It had been almost three weeks since she had begun working on the Polyjuice potion in the basement of the house and it was coming along, in her opinion, quite nicely. Tonight she had to add the second to last batch of ingredients, after which point it needed to sit until the last day, when she would add both the final ingredients and the benevolent Magellan Quickfoot's hair.

Carefully, she minced the lacewings before crushing them with an iron mortar and pestle. Setting that aside, she painstakingly separated and then skinned the boomslang skin using the edge of her very thin, very sharp knife. The more ragged the edges, the poorer the quality, and Hermione did not tolerate a less than perfect ingredient going into something so important as a potion; the poorer the ingredients used, the less efficacious the result. For something as important as the Polyjuice potion and the reason it was being used, she would rather discard expensive, slightly less than perfect ingredients than give Sirius vials that could potentially expose him due to lasting a shorter amount of time than he had planned on.

It really was a good thing she enjoyed potions, she thought, despite Professor Snape's utmost attempts to make every student at Hogwarts hate the subject by virtue of being a—well, a complete git at times. Not that she would ever admit that particular sentiment aloud, of course. All professors were worthy of at least the respect of their titles, and if she hated him a little bit for the way that he had tried to expose Professor Lupin's secret, and the way he bullied Neville, then that was between her and him, and damn if she was going to let him deduct more points from her for a simple lack of politeness.

She hissed as she rather energetically tried to separate the boomslang and instead accidentally cut into it. Placing it aside to see if she could use it for a later potion, she started afresh on the new piece, wedging the tip of the knife carefully between the skin and meat and beginning to cut through the membrane attaching the two.

Her neck began to ache a while later, and a check on the time revealed it was half ten. She'd been at it for several hours, already, and that after a long day at work. Almost against her will, she began to yawn as she stretched her back before returning to her task. After this, all she had to do was actually add the ingredients to the mixture over a period of seventeen minutes while systematically stirring and incantating a binding spell, and then she would be done for the night.

She yawned again and rubbed at the back of her neck. It was at times like this that she wished for more time. If she used the Time-Turner, she could take a nap and be fresh for the next step, which would make her feel less concerned. A single missed step or even the lack of a steady hand could ruin the potion completely, and then Sirius would be in incredible trouble.

Even the thought made her tense, and the urge to get the Time-Turner from its very hidden, very secure place upstairs grew ever stronger, the glint of gold seeming to wink in the corner of her vision.

"No, Hermione," she told herself firmly, gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white, "we don't do that anymore."

But it would be so easy, the logical side of her protested. A quick turn, a brief reprieve, and she'd be ready to go. What wasn't to like?

There was everything not to like about it, and she well knew it. She wouldn't—couldn't forget the feeling of unreality slowly warping around her as the year went on, and the slide into complete mental, emotional, and physical exhaustion had made her feel as though she were losing her mind.

She smiled humourlessly at the last thought. She'd almost lost a lot more than that.

So no Time-Turner, just Hermione Granger and pure determination. She'd done a lot with that before third year, and she'd do a lot with just that moving forward. Third year was the exception, not the rule.

"Hey, kitten."

She whirled at the unexpected greeting. Sirius had come down the stairs and was standing at the foot of the stairs, his appearance that of the man she had first met rather than the golden-haired wizard who was rapidly becoming an enigma. "You scared me!"

He shrugged a shoulder. "Sorry? I did come down the stairs pretty loudly. You must have been lost in your thoughts."

Sighing, she discarded another ruined potions ingredient and started over. "I suppose so." But she didn't want to talk about what she had been thinking about. He would most certainly not approve. "Come to watch me make your Polyjuice? A fan of watching cauldrons boil, are you?"

He lazily transfigured a broom into a chair and straddles it backwards, resting his arms on the edge of the backrest. "I actually hated Potions. Couldn't stand the timing, and the rules, and the steps. Everything had an order! Merlin, it was boring." He rolled his eyes. "No room for creativity there. No, I actually really liked Transfigurations. It helped that I could get a rise out of Minnie easy as pie."

Her eyes bugged out. "Minnie?"

Snorting, he nodded. "Minnie. Just calling her that got her riled up. But the pranks we used to pull...legendary." Sirius closed his eyes in ecstasy.

"So….you really just like the subject because you could skive off."

Affronted, he drew back and looked at her with a pout. "No, I liked it because I liked the subject. Who do you think suggested we become Animagi so we could romp around with Remus?"

"You?" she asked skeptically, putting aside the last of her boomslang and measuring out some bicorn horn. Quickly, she referenced _Moste Potente Potions_ to make sure what she remembered was in fact, the correct brewing directions, and then set forth to carefully add the ingredients.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, still looking indignant. "'Twas I, Sirius Orion Black. As if James ruddy Potter or Peter 'I'm secretly the scum of the earth' Pettigrew would suggest taking on extra study."

"James didn't like studying at all?" She chose to focus on Harry's father.

Looking thoughtfully, Sirius stroked his chin. "No, he was a fairly good student, actually. He had a hard time focusing in class, though."

She thought of how she often caught Harry doodling or staring out the window and bit back a smile. "Really? Harry's like that."

Sirius huffed. "Well, he got that trait honestly. Prongs was always daydreaming of something or other when he wasn't mooning over his Lilyflower."

The adolescent girl in her swooned at the nickname even as she checked the time left on her timer. "That's really quite romantic. Her nickname, I mean."

Sirius outright laughed, the booming sound filling the room and making her grin. "James certainly thought so! Lily, not so much. She hated the nickname. Said it made her sound like some wilting fragile thing when she really wasn't." He sighed, face growing sombre. "She really, really wasn't."

Sensing his shift in mood, she sought for another topic to lift his spirits. "Have I told you about what happened at work with Viktor Krum, that Seeker you mentioned?"

He perked up a little bit. "No, but do go on. I sense something entertaining?"

She shot him a look. "Entertaining is one word for it. A train wreck—er, a complete mess—is another one."

Her recounting of the saga lasted almost as long as she needed to brew, and the timer went off just as she was finishing up. She switched directions with the stirring rod, stirring it thirty-two times counterclockwise before removing it and peering critically at the mixture. As she watched, the viscous mix bubbled slowly and changed from a deep violet to a shiny pearlescent color. It was textbook perfect.

"Well," she announced, satisfied, "that's me done for the night. I'll come back in a week or so to complete the next steps."

"You make it look effortless," Sirius said, shaking his head ruefully. "I'm rubbish at brewing, truthfully." His tone grew dark. "I'm rubbish at a lot of things, it seems."

Unsure of how to respond to his sudden change in mood, she carefully cleaned up the station around the cauldron, stored the boomslang skin she'd nicked, and headed up the stairs in silence, Sirius right behind her.

Feeling exhausted as the adrenaline of brewing wore off, she headed for the kitchen to get a glass of water before heading up to bed. It had been a long day and she had an early start tomorrow as usual. "Want a glass of water?" she offered as he followed her.

He shook his head, instead pulling out a bottle of something distinctly alcoholic and pouring a glass. "I'm going to have to go with something a bit stronger." Shadows in his eyes, he raised the glass and then doffed the entire drink in one go. "It keeps the memories at bay."

That night, she woke up to a hoarse, sharp yell rending the still air. This time, instead of going to investigate, she closed her eyes and turned onto her side, remembering his comments from last time.

A few minutes later, just as she was starting to doze off again, her thoughts an amorphous shape with no clear meaning, her door creaked. The shadow of a giant black dog, its shoulders hunched and tail tucked, came slinking in. Still caught between reality and a dream, Hermione reached out, and he nudged into the palm of her hand.

"S'rus?" she asked drowsily. His tail gave a small, miniscule wag, and she shifted slightly. "Don't wanna be 'lone? C'mon, get up here."

He licked her palm and jumped up, the bed sagging a little under his weight, and laid next to her in a warm line, the heat lulling her back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Happy Monday. Hope your week is starting off on a good note and everyone is staying as safe as possible. As usual, the next update will be on Friday.


	15. Interlude - A Good Man

Sirius Black had once been a fundamentally good man. He was a loyal friend who worked hard and played just as hard, his mischievous spirit emboldened by his best friends. Usually, he helped those in need and tried as best as he could to step out of the shadows the Black family name cast on him. Sometimes the family legacy of Darkness and cruelty crept up on him, such as the time when he almost led Snivellus to his unsuspecting death, but all in all, Sirius considered himself a decent person.

That was before he was left to rot in Azkaban for twelve long, miserable years by the people he had once loved so dearly. No trial, no visits, no letters. Not a one who had come to rescue him, to listen to him, to reach out a hand and say, “I’m here to help you”. Instead, he’d been thrown in a cell and left to die a miserable death with all of the other Death Eaters, his apparent bosom brothers. 

The first days had been filled with hope, even as he had slept on a ragged cot, his thin prison clothes doing little to ward off the chill of the air whipping in through the windows. The Dementors, stationed so nearby, had slowly dragged out and extinguished those hopes and replaced them instead with despair, and then with nightmares, and at last with screams of terror. Most nights he shivered under the cot as Padfoot, too scared to sleep for the fear of what he’d see. Merlin knew the last few years had supplied enough fodder to keep his mind occupied. 

Time slipped away, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, until he was no longer sure when he was awake or sleeping. People he’d thought dead visited him in his cell, and those he had called enemies began seeming sympathetic, like friends almost. Was he dreaming it all, or was it happening? What was real? A dream? He couldn’t tell.

And then—a brief moment of clarity. An unstable bar across the window. A frantic scramble to further destabilize and then remove it, and then he was on the outside of the prison, the frigid spray and roar of the sea engulfing him. The distant sight of the shore beckoned him, and... Well. He had nothing to lose if he didn’t at least  _ try _ . So off into the sea he went, Padfoot’s warm fur protecting him from the freezing, roiling water. 

Somehow he made it across. Half dead and choking on water, but alive nonetheless. The haze of fear and despair lingered, a dark miasma across his mind, but he didn’t feel as though he were chained down by it as a million lashes were inflicted across his soul. The first night he slept under a tree, shivering and scared of how empty his mind felt and how big the world felt. It didn’t matter. He was  _ free _ .

After that, he began to plan. First, he would destroy Pettigrew, the one who murdered his most beloved friends. The one who caused him to be stuck in Azkaban. He would die a most gruesome death at his hands. Sirius simply had to find him first. 

And after Peter was taken care of...well. He had no loyalty to Dumbledore and his followers, those he had once considered his brothers in arms. Those who had abandoned him and left him to die. However, he  _ was _ loyal to Harry Potter. Harry, the boy he had considered almost his own. Harry, who had laughed with him while they romped outside together, who had sat on his lap as they gazed up at the stars, who had petted him and called him first  _ Pas _ and then  _ Pads.  _ Harry, who was his to love and protect. 

Harry, who had been taken away from him. 

The first time he set eyes on Harry, it was like looking at a young James Potter. The same messy hair. The same lanky build. The same propensity to sleep curled on his side, mouth slack, hand tucked under his chin. He had gripped the curtains at the visceral pain the image evoked, his hands transformed into claws as he wavered between grief and rage, and accidentally ripped the curtains. 

The noise woke one of the boys, and he had had to escape, so close to his goal of getting to the killer sleeping in their midst. He returned to the cave, only sometimes creeping out to sit by the lake in the early, early morning when nobody would be awake to spot him. Sometimes when he looked in the water, he saw his brother’s reflection. Other times, he saw Marlene, her summer blue eyes staring into his, or Gideon and Fabian, who he had fought with countless times. He could never escape their ghosts, and their accusing looks. What did they want from him? Wasn’t he trying hard enough?

When he closed his eyes, they followed him into his dreams. 

And then one day the girl showed up. The girl interested him. She confused him. She anchored him in the present because she was  _ there _ , and she didn’t always show up, but he was able to count the days in between her appearances and begin to understand the passage of time. Which, in the end, was the definition of ironic, because the girl was flaunting the rules of time as easily as breathing, and he watched it destroy her, day by day, season by season. 

At first she was fine, her crazy hair bushy and shiny, her skin flushed with health. She would stare up at the sky from her spot on the bank by the lake and just breathe for a minute before cracking open a book. But that soon stopped. Something was happening to her, something completely and wholly ravaging that he couldn’t figure out. She went from calm and centered to feverishly working, her clothes hanging on her as she wrote scrolls and scrolls and scrolls. But the workload didn’t explain away everything. He had seen people bend under the weight of a full schedule, and this was something else. 

One day he watched her sit at the embankment, her head in her hands for a long, long time. He wasn’t sure if she was crying, or sleeping. She was so impossibly still. But at last, she had straightened up, slowly, so slowly, and pulled out something round and golden from around her neck. It spun slowly in front of her, and he shrank away from the sight of the Time-Turner. 

It was no wonder she was wasting away. Time-Turners were notorious for wreaking havoc on witches and wizards alike, especially those not attuned to their Dark energies. Something about it—the mechanism that made it work—slowly destroyed the magical core as it drove them out of their minds. What was worse, arguably, was that the lucky witch or wizard didn’t feel the effects until it was too late: it took their sanity and magic little by little while making them feel like they’d had the Felix Felicis every time they turned it over. The feeling was addictive, another part of the loop that fed into the deadliness of the Time-Turner.

How in Merlin’s balls had she gotten such a thing? And how had nobody noticed the effect on her?

But he couldn’t do anything to help her without risking getting caught and Kissed. So he watched, and he watched, and he watched as she wasted away. At one point, when he had managed to steal money and supplies, he managed to write his girl a note, which he left pinned underneath a rock by the spot she usually sat at.

When she found it, he watched with bated breath as she read it, first shaking her head in disbelief, exclaiming that it couldn’t be right, then muttering that they wouldn’t have given it to her if it had these effects, then slowly, slowly, starting to cry, choking out that she had no choice. 

No choice? Surely she did. The girl was a fool to think she couldn’t save herself. What was she doing with the time that was so critical, anyways? He had warned her, he raged to himself, and still she continued on?

So be it. He washed his hands of her. He had tried to warn her, and she turned away from it. Now, when she came to the banks, sometimes crying, sometimes reading, always steadfast, he turned away and headed into the cave, unwilling to be a spectator to her foolishness.

But that foolish girl saved him when all hope seemed lost, helping Harry—his Harry, who had been taken from him—to facilitate his escape on the damned Hippogriff. 

“The Time-Turner, then?” he asked, resigned, even in the midst of mounting Buckbeak. 

His girl—no,  _ Hermione _ —had stilled. “How did you know? No, wait. You’re the one who sent the note.”

He nodded. “It’s dangerous, that.” He leaned over and tapped the spot on her chest where it was tucked under her shirt. “Listen to me and get rid of that thing. It will kill you. It  _ is _ killing you.”

“Hermione?” Harry had asked, alarmed. “What is he talking about?”

They both ignored him, starting at each other. She bit her lip. “I know. And—and I will stop. Right after this. But we had to save you! You’re innocent. It’s all Pettigrew’s fault, not yours!” she burst out.

Beside her, Harry nodded, his eyes,  _ Lilyflower’s eyes _ , bright green and shining with conviction. The sight of both of them, so earnest in their conviction, made something inside him shudder and click into place. They believed him. They defended him. They helped him. 

The rest of the world could burn, he thought as he flew away, but Hermione Granger and Harry Potter were his to protect, no matter what happened on his path to killing Pettigrew. 

No matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to our first interlude :) It is, as you have noticed, a significantly shorter chapter than usual, which is why I tried so hard to get one out on Monday. However, I hope hearing from Sirius will help you forgive me just a little bit.
> 
> As a side note, today we hit 150 follows across AO3 and FF.net, which I find absolutely mind boggling. To celebrate, I wanted to do a give away! The first person to comment their thoughts on this chapter/the fic will get a short fic of their choosing: they can either describe a scene that they wished they had seen so far in the fic or give me a short H/V prompt that I will write. I will contact you via PM or I'll reply to your comment directly so we can hash it out. I'm excited :)


	16. Chapter Fourteen

The match against Australia was weighing heavily in everyone’s minds, and the mood on the pitch reflected it. They had made it from the final sixteen down to the top eight, and the country was buzzing with excitement. Viktor had agreed that morning, on advice of his publicist, to sit for a photoshoot and an interview that would be released sometime in the next few weeks right before the game occurred. The shoots made him feel exposed, as if the entire world were peering right at him, but he knew that they were a necessary evil. The team had already done the official shoot, but the additional press was to be expected. Others on the team had also done shoots of their own, and the Chasers and Beaters were also getting photoshoots done in groups. If they made it to the semifinals, the amount of press was sure to skyrocket, and he was not looking forward to that. 

“Viktor,” Vasily called out to him as they ran punishing laps around the perimeter of the pitch, “I heard that you ran into Mia in town? How is our little Healer?”

He rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

“Someone sure is sounding _defensive_ ,” Alexei joined in, sweat beading on his forehead as he kept pace with the taller men. “Vasily was only trying to make conversation, you know. It’s what friends do, haven’t you heard?”

Pyotr laughed at that. “You can’t converse your way out of a paper bag, _tüpak.”_ Alexei shoved him with a hand and he laughed even as he protested, “Hey! Precious cargo here. However will I protect our most precious and beloved Chasers if I’m injured?”

“As if I need protecting,” Clara threw over her shoulder from her easy pace several metres ahead of them. “I’ll outfly any Bludger headed my way without your bat.”

“Brave words from a little bird,” Vasily retorted, his stocky frame steadily pounding against the dirt. “I’ll keep that in mind when I see Martin hit one at you in the next match and just let it fly right past me.” 

Clara’s affronted face caused Viktor to huff out a laugh in between even breaths, and the sound brought Vasily’s attention back to him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten how this conversation started, Krum. The girl. How is she?”

Viktor shrugged, thinking about the surprise over the weekend. “She’s surprisingly good company,” he admitted thoughtfully. “I got the feeling she isn’t particularly popular at school, was perhaps even bullied, and she’s a bit shy as a result. However, she’s very polite and earnest.”

Several of the men, Alexei in particular, frowned. “Bullied? Our Mia?” He asked. “I couldn’t see why—well,” he grimaced, “I suppose I could. A quiet girl that’s smarter than everyone else could be an easy target.”

Thinking of their first encounter by the river, Viktor laughed. “I wouldn’t necessarily call her quiet, per se.”

“Oh?” Sensing a story there, Pyotr moved in closer. “Is she fiery? Does she have a temper?”

Above them, Islov’s swooping figure loomed, and he yelled, “If you are talking, you aren’t running fast enough!” 

“ _Gluposti,_ ” Zograf, who had been silent up until now, snarled. “He’s going to call in the dogs. You know how he gets when you run your mouths.”

Viktor sighed. Zograf wasn’t this grouchy unless he was nursing a hangover, and that seemed more often than not the past month or so. He wondered if the taciturn Keeper was having trouble at home, but pushed the thought of his mind as the familiar shadows of the hounds leaping from Islov’s wand greeted him. The shadow hounds, or Hounds of Hell (as the team called them out of Islov’s earshot), existed only to torture them and nip at their heels as they raced to outrun them. 

The phantom sensation of teeth grabbing at his calf set Viktor to running faster, and he and the rest of the team bent their heads and pushed their strides further as they rounded the long side of the pitch where the entrance to the Healing Hall was. They passed the wall to wall windows without a pause, and Viktor barely spared a glance at the opaque windows. There were more important things to think about than Mia and her proclivity for sunny reading spots in gardens. 

Luckily, the cardio training wound down soon enough, and they were back on their brooms for a good hour and a half before they broke for lunch. Viktor had gotten another letter from Karkaroff earlier in the week that demanded he write back on his progress training for the Triwizard Tournament, and Viktor had merely put the letter on top of the stack of correspondence he needed to get to at some point. The Headmaster could berate Viktor all he wanted for taking too long to respond to his letter, but he had neither the time nor the motivation to assuage the man’s anxiety. 

It had, however, prompted Viktor to bring one of the books the Headmaster had sent him, one rather blandly entitled _Ancient Wizarding Traditions_. The chapter on the Tournament seemed interesting if nothing else, and he wanted to skim it during lunch. 

When he went to pick up the picnic basket the team elves knew to create for him, he spied Mia sitting alone in the corner of the dining hall, her head bent over a thick tome and her lips soundlessly practicing an incantation. 

Before he knew it, he had made his way over to her. When his shadow fell on the pages of her book, where a complex diagram of some hideous wound was being discussed, she looked up, her eyes wide in surprise. “May I sit?” he asked, motioning at the bench across from her. 

“Of course. It’s only...well, I won’t be much company, I fear,” she replied, frowning. “I want to finish at least two more chapters before the end of lunch. There’s so much to learn...”

He waved away her fears and put his own book on the table. “I have something of my own to study.”

Her face brightened in curiosity, and she bent her head to look at the spine of the book. “You do? What is it?”

“There is something called the TriWizard Tournament happening,” he replied, interested to see her reaction. “It is happening this year, and will take place between three of the top wizarding schools.”

“Durmstrang,” she said immediately, then paused in thought. “And surely Hogwarts, I suppose, but which other one?”

“Beauxbatons,” he answered, and Hermione nodded. 

“That makes sense. They’ve got an incredible reputation as well, particularly in transfigurative arts. How does the tournament work, exactly?” 

Viktor leaned forward. “Honestly, Mia, I’m not sure.” He tapped the book with a finger and told her mischievously, “That’s why I’ve got this, you see.”

He watched the flush creep over her cheeks and climb to the tips of her ears. “Of course, of course,” she responded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. “I should have known, obviously, that you wouldn’t know. That’s why you’ve got a book, after all. Right.”

“Mia,” he said calmly, “there is no need to be like that. You were simply being interested. I’ll tell you what I know now, and then I’ll tell you the rest once I’ve read it.” 

A little less embarrassed, she nodded and shut her own book after marking it with a slip of paper, giving him her full attention. The weight of her gaze once again rested upon him, and he straightened up. He had forgotten how heavy it was, how wise her eyes were for one so young. 

“The Triwizard Tournament,” he began, “is a tournament that takes place between three schools, one of which hosts the tournament on its grounds. This time, I believe it will take place at Hogwarts.”

Hermione reared back in surprise, taken aback. 

“It will?” she asked. “I mean, I think I read about this in passing in _Hogwarts: A History_ , but I feel as though it was said that the Tournament was a disaster when it last took place at Hogwarts Although,” she ventured, “I’m excited for you to come. I can show you all the best places and even some secret passages. But Viktor…Viktor, I think someone _died_ the last time, if I’m remembering correctly.”

He did not doubt her memory, and he frowned. “I have not read much about it,” he reminded her, “but I think it must be very dangerous. My Headmaster owled me with books to prepare for it. He says that there are qualifying trials to determine who will travel to represent Durmstrang but anticipates—no,” he corrected, “ _expects_ me to not only qualify but also to act as Durmstrang’s champion.”

She bit her lip. “That’s a lot of pressure and a lot of expectation to put on you.”

Shrugging, he said, “It is nothing I am unfamiliar with, but it is rather inconvenient because of the timing. Karkaroff—Headmaster Karkaroff—expects me to train for the tournament while I am in the middle of the World Cup and all that entails, not to mention studying for my M.L.O.K.s.” At her blank expression, he explained, “The exams at the end of seventh year. Although if I am in England for this tournament, I don’t see how all of the visiting Durmstrang students’ studies will continue.” And that was very heavy food for thought. 

“Surely they will let you take classes with us,” Hermione responded promptly. “I would think that they wouldn’t require students to come at the expense of their studies, especially for students who have exams like N.E.W.T.S or O.W.L.s. Oh, I need to tell you all about the Professors! Viktor, you will love most of them. I particularly enjoy Charms and Transfiguration.”

His interest piqued, he asked, “Charms?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes! Professor Flitwick is incredible. He used to be a professional duelist outside of school, which I personally think lends an interesting perspective to charm applications. Also, his teaching style is truly excellent. Why? Do you like Charms?”

Leaning forward, Viktor confided, “Charms is one of my most favourite subjects. You see, I want to pursue a career as a Weather Wizard when I am finished with Quidditch. As the second son of the Krum family, I am expected to act as steward and ensure that both our lands and our tenants prosper. I think and hope that a Mastery in Weather Magic would help me attain this goal.”

Impulsively, she reached across the table and touched his arm. “That’s incredible,” she told him earnestly. “Weather magic is an incredibly difficult field to master as it is, but your reason behind it...I find that perhaps more impressive than your goal. You want to help the people you are responsible for, and I think that’s really quite admirable.” Her eyes crinkled at the edges, and he smiled back in spite of himself. 

“You and I are the same, I suppose,” he said, somewhat surprised at the thought even as it passed his lips. “Both wanting to help others.”

Hermione nodded, and an accord passed between them for a moment. Right then, Viktor felt as if he had been seen and understood in a way that perhaps he hadn’t quite been before. She had been so interested in how they impacted _him_ , not in how his decisions affected his Quidditch career or even his familial obligations.

It was strange, he thought, that he could relate better to some English girl that had appeared by the riverbank one afternoon than to others he had known for a longer time. Very strange indeed.

“Oy, Viktor! You gonna get up off your lazy arse and fly a broom or what?” Vasily yelled across the hall, then grinned at Hermione’s expression and waved. “Hey Mia,” he greeted in a much more polite tone. “Hope that idiot didn’t bother you too much.”

Viktor stood and grabbed his book from the table, running his hand through his hair. “Shut up, Dimitrov,” he called back. To Hermione, he said, “I’ll see you later?” Though he wasn’t sure why he had asked it like that, as if there would be another meeting between just the two of them. He was bound to see her sooner rather than later.

She nodded, her lips tilting up, and he felt her gaze on him as he left the hall with Vasily and Zograf, the former companionably ribbing him about spending extra time with the ‘little Healer’, as he’d begun calling her. 

The rest of the afternoon passed swiftly, and Viktor felt tired but energized at the end of practice. His mind was alert and embroiled in strategy as he cleaned up and apparated to Krum Manor for dinner. He tried to make a point to have at least one or two meals with his mother a week now that he was free to do so, and Thursdays had become rather a standing date between the two of them unless something interfered.

The family’s Healer, Demetrius Matsoukas, was leaving the house just as Viktor apparated into the courtyard. The curly haired man nodded at him as they passed each other, and Viktor came to a halt, turning around and asking, “How is she?”

Demetrius stopped and faced Viktor, the crags of his weather-worn face deeper than usual. “Her vitals are good, but Viktor...she is weaker. I fear she will succumb if she becomes ill. You must protect her, even from herself.” He smiled wanly. “She is quite intent on attending your games, you know.”

“And you don’t wish her to? Is it not safe?” 

Regretfully, Demetrius shook his head. “I worry that the excitement might be too much. If she were somewhere quiet and away from it all, then perhaps she could. Even in the family box, I worry. She could be exposed to an illness, or the heat and noise could cause her distress.”

Viktor bowed his head. It would be...disappointing, for her not to see him fly at the pinnacle of his sport, doing what he did best and what she had always encouraged and fostered. But if his _Maika,_ his most beloved mother _,_ could not handle it as she grew frailer, then he would survive. 

Surviving _her_ disappointment, however, was another story. He sensed a fight in his future. 

“I understand,” he murmured. “Thank you, Demetrius. You have always served us well, and I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”

As always, the Healer bowed. “We’ve served your family for hundreds of years, my Lord, and I hope we will serve hundreds more.”

“I as well.” Viktor clicked his heels together and bowed. “If I can do anything to help you as you have helped me, please do not hesitate to send me an owl.”

Demetrius’ mouth softened. “A truly noble man you are, Vitkor. I am pleased to see you grow up into someone the people can love.” He laughed suddenly and corrected himself. “Who they _do_ love. They’re truly Quidditch mad around here. It’s really something to see.”

Self-consciously, Viktor rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a national pastime. I wouldn’t say it has anything in particular to do with me.”

“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you better.” Demetrius bowed again shallowly and said, “Now, I really must go. Bitty will have my head if I am not home in time for dinner!” His house elf was rather militant about keeping set eating hours, since Demetrius was prone to forgetting to eat otherwise.

Viktor nodded and they parted ways. His steps felt heavier than usual as he ascended the steps, and if he greeted his mother with a little more solemnity and tenderness than usual, she did not notice. 

“How was practice today, Vitya?” she asked. “I read in the papers that the odds are slightly stacked in favor of Australia winning the upcoming match, but that has changed since the press was allowed to watch you practice a few days ago.”

“Has it?” he asked disinterestedly, focusing on the meal in front of him. “The press is full of rubbish. If they don’t have an Arithmancer on staff predicting the match, then I couldn’t care less. And even if they did,” he added, “I would want to see the equation.”

She laughed. “So distrusting,” she chided. “Where did you get that trait from, hm?”

He swirled the liquid in his glass instead of responding, knowing she wouldn’t like the words that had sprung so easily to his lips. _From watching you and Father_. No, she would not like that implication at all. For all that he loved her, he was aware of her faults, and Milena Krum did not like to be criticized. At least she did not have a deep well of temper like his father, Grigor, which Viktor had had the misfortune of inheriting. She may lash you with her tongue, but she would return to tranquility a bare moment later. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed not a moment later, previous conversation forgotten. “I forgot to mention— Kosta wanted me to ask you to attend a little get together in a week or so, shortly before the match. It’s in your honour, of course, to wish you well.”

Viktor huffed. “However he wants to couch it is fine. We both know what it is: a ploy to use me to further his business connections.”

Milena leaned back in her chair, a reproving look on her face. “While that may be true - and I’m not saying it is—if your brother asked you to attend, you had best do so. As a son of Krum, you are expected to participate in society and further the family’s name and connections. Besides, Kosta is only trying to do things like this with our family and fortune in mind.”

He hated this, especially knowing the type of people to attend gatherings like this. “And I am the prize pony to be trotted in front of everyone else while he lingers in the background, rubbing elbows and schmoozing, I suppose. Typical.” 

His mother pinched the skin between her eyebrows and sighed. “Vitya, please. Do this for me, will you?”

Viktor felt the familiar flame of temper, this time ignited out of resentment, simmering within him. Instead of giving into it, he thought of flying up into pure blue skies and leaving his anger far behind him. He exhaled a long, drawn out breath as he resigned himself to the idea of going to yet another gathering that he had neither the time nor inclination to join. But if _Maika_ had asked it of him, then he would go. 

Taking a deep breath, he reached across the table and took her hand as he looked into her tired, grass-green eyes. “For you, Mother, anything.” 

Her hand gripped his. “You’re a sweet boy, Viktor. Thank you.” 

She pressed the invitation into his hand as she saw him out of the house, admonishing him not to forget. Equal parts admiring and rueful, he realized how neatly she had managed him. One moment, he was saying no, and the next, he had not only agreed but felt obliged to see it through. 

If he could figure out how to replicate her deft hand in a social setting, he would feel much better at navigating his way through the social sphere in which he moved. Unfortunately, he didn’t have her finesse. No, Kosta had gotten all of that. Instead, he was the quiet one that managed to bumble his way through events like this with sheer grit. 

Well, he thought with a grimace as he placed the invitation down on his desk. Duty called, and he would always answer.

He was simply not capable of doing otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update! Life happened, and I wasn't able to update on Friday as I prefer. Work has been extremely crazy and I expect it to continue, so from now on, please look for Saturday updates in lieu of Fridays.
> 
> Congratulations to ReineP, who was the first to respond. I have been busily working away on her request and am winding down on the cute fic they requested. Hopefully I will be able to post it in the next week or two! It will be about 3 chapters. I am clearly incapable of writing short ditties. Oh well.


	17. Chapter Fifteen

Hermione was usually first up, and she was almost always out of the house in the morning before Sirius came down, but this morning she was treated to the rare sight of Sirius sitting at the kitchen table, holding a mug of tea between his hands and pensively staring at a small wooden box sitting on some crumpled pieces of newspaper on the table.

"Good morning. Did you get a delivery?" she asked, curious. He hadn't really had much sent to him since they had arrived in Bulgaria.

He shrugged, eyes flicking her way before going back to focus on the box. "Of a sorts, I suppose."

She moved closer, squinting as she tried to make out the intricate designs on the wood shadowed by the weak morning light. "What is it?"

"Nothing much, really. Just a music box." He opened it, and a silvery sound came out, making her think of times she could barely remember when her nanny would sing her to sleep.

Moments later, he snapped it shut, and reflexively, she protested, "Hey!" He arched a brow, and she flushed. "Sorry. It was just—it sounded so nice. Is it for lullabies?"

Sirius' smile was small but dark. "Of a sort." Standing, he stretched before slipping it into his coat pocket. He picked up the wrapping paper and box it came in and put them in the rubbish bin. Over his shoulder, he told her, "I've got to go get ready. Big day ahead, you know."

"Oh? Well, all right, then," she responded, startled. It was barely half six, but he had been keeping stranger and stranger hours. Who knew what he was doing? "I hope you have a good day!"

He scratched his neck under his collar, his expression inscrutable. "Me too." And then he went up the stairs, disappearing from sight.

For some reason, she had a feeling they hadn't been talking about the same thing.

Feeling a little unsettled by the exchange, she began preparing breakfast, all the while wondering what he was doing with a music box if it wasn't for help sleeping.

She arrived at the Healing Hall right on time and got quickly to work preparing the infirmary for any potential issues that could arise. The team didn't have any scrummages or mock games today as they so often did, which meant it was likely to be a quieter day than usual. However, they were running low on Bruise Paste, and Hermione went to the laboratory to begin making the relatively simple salve.

Losing herself in the work, she startled badly when Mistress Lazarov's voice came from behind her. "You really are quite efficient, aren't you?" Her tone was approving.

In the middle of measuring out 500 ounces of Arnica gel, Hermione responded, "We were running low, and I figured I may as well make some in the case we need it. Best to have too much of something like this since we run through it so quickly."

"I really am pleased with your performance so far, Miss Granger," her mentor continued, and Hermione felt herself flush with pleasure. "Have you read through the _Mortibus Aegrotatonium_?"

"Yes," Hermione said, somewhat distractedly, "I enjoyed the part on deadly diseases contracted from magical creatures and wildlife the most. I had no idea that there could be such destructive illnesses that could be transmitted from plants and animals."

Mistress Lazarov joined her at a spot further down on the bench, preparing an iron cauldron and getting a bevvy of ingredients from the storeroom. They left the door to the lab open so they could better hear if someone came in, and they passed the morning restocking the inventory and discussing Hermione's thoughts on what she had read in the basic medical texts, as well as the more arcane and obscure texts on Dark injuries.

It was somehow almost twelve when Hermione looked up from her batch of SkeleGro, blinking in surprise. "Is it really almost time for lunch?"

Mistress Lazarov looked up from her own work, her hair curling around her face from the heat of the cauldron. "So it is, I suppose. I can place the Entrail Exciting potion under stasis, but SkeleGro loses potency...how long until yours is ready?"

"Twenty-four minutes," she replied promptly. "I'm only letting it simmer now, but everything's already added. I was thinking —"

"No thinking!" Clara's voice entered the room before she popped into view, her tall, muscular form energetically striding in. "Only eating! Kras, are you ready to get away from your boring old potions and drink wine with me while we bet on if Klaus Schmidt will be ejected from the QWC Ball again for 'behaviour unbecoming a guest'?" She used inverted commas as she smirked. "I'm not exactly sure that's what _I_ would call organizing an orgy by the fountain, but to each their own."

What on earth were they talking about? "What exactly is the QWC Ball?" Hermione ventured. "Is it a celebration?"

The look on Clara's face reminded Hermione of the look Ron got when he found out he'd eaten the last Pumpkin Pasty and there were no more left: unmitigated horror. "What is the QWC Ball? What do you _mean_ what is it? It's the event of the season! How have you never heard of the Quidditch World Cup Ball?"

"Er, I don't exactly keep up with Quidditch," Hermione offered, "and the last time the World Cup was held—I'm assuming four years ago—I didn't even know I was a witch yet?" She winced slightly and hoped it was sufficient.

Clara frowned. "Fine. I accept your excuse. I do not, however, accept _your_ excuse for not telling her!" She pointed an accusing finger at Madam Lazarov, who looked unruffled.

"I am not the chair of her social calendar, Clara. Besides, I wasn't even sure if she would be allowed to come, given her age and all."

"Tch! As if the team wouldn't allow that. Pytor has already started murmuring about waltzing with our English Rose, and then Alexei threatened to cut Pyrotr's feet off if he so much as stepped wrong. And _then_ ," she finished gleefully, "Viktor got strangely quiet, and dare I say, even sulky?" Giving Madam Lazarov a significant look, she said decisively, "it's happening. Get over it."

Madam Lazarov pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "Very well. However, I do insist that her guardian attends to act as chaperone."

How embarrassing. A chaperone? Perhaps it would be best if Hermione just avoided the ball altogether. Besides, she didn't particularly enjoy social gatherings. "Maybe I shouldn't go, if it would be inconvenient? I don't have a dress to wear, either, so maybe I should just miss it."

Slashing a hand through the air, Clara dramatically declared, "I forbid it! You are coming, and that is the end of it. I will take you shopping myself. Honestly, I can't believe nobody has even brought this up. That's practically neglectful!"

"Are you implying I'm a derelict Mistress?" Madam Lazarov drawled, her tone dangerous. It was one that Hermione had learned to recognize as _slightly in trouble but not in hot water_.

"You know that's nothing remotely close to what I said," Clara dismissed. "Don't even try to pretend to be mad at me right now. We've got bigger cauldrons to stir. You didn't even tell your _own apprentice_ about the biggest party in the world that's going to happen! What were you going to do, let her miss the ball?"

"I would have told her eventually," her mentor said, "when I remembered it. It's not as important to me as it is to you, _moya priyatel_. Remember, you're actually one of the stars, and we are mere accessories."

Clara laughed brightly and slung an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "I wouldn't call our English Rose an accessory, and you know perfectly well why." She waggled her eyebrows meaningfully at the Healer, who rolled her eyes.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure it will be a big to-do at some point," she agreed begrudgingly.

Hermione was totally lost at this point, but willing to go along with it. She was having Girl Talk with two women she really respected, and what was more surprising was that she was enjoying it!

Hesitatingly, she entered the fray. "So...the ball involves the players?"

"Oh, darling girl," Clara's arm squeezed her so tight for a second Hermione saw stars, "it includes _everyone_ who is _anyone._ The Ball only happens every four years, and it is talked about until the next one happens! Something _big_ always happens at the Ball."

"Not necessarily good," Mistress Lazarov added _sotto voce_.

Impossibly, Clara's eyes brightened even further, and Hermione had a strange feeling of déja vu. Where had she seen that look before? Oh yes, in Lavender's eyes. That...did not bode well for her, did it?

"It's _always_ delicious. Remember last time when that Hungarian and the Peruvian Chaser got into a duel over the champagne fountain?" Clara reminisced, gleeful. "And then the entire South African team was found in some kind of compromising position—did we ever find out if they were having some kind of orgy with the Veela delegation?"

An orgy? A duel over a champagne fountain? Doubtfully, Hermione asked, "Are you sure I'm allowed to go to this?"

Clara looked at Hermione, took in her wide eyes and blushing cheeks, and positively lost it.

"Sweet girl," she reassured her on the tail end of a gale of laughter. "The entire team, myself included, would kill themselves before they let anything happen to you. They're awfully fond of you, you know."

Hermione blinked. "They are? Why?"

Looking over at Mistress Lazarov, Clara pointed her finger at her. "I told you," she said knowingly. "Not. A. Clue."

Clara took her arm from around Hermione's shoulders and stepped back, ticking Hermione's fans off with one finger. "You saved Alexei and earned his undying gratitude during the match with the Morrocans; you are a wonderful source of gossip and news for Pytor, so that's earned his loyalty—" she rolled her eyes and shrugged as if to say _he's an idiot, "_ —and you brewed an exceptionally tasty pain potion for Vasily after he dislocated his shoulder that he swore made him feel like new again; _I_ personally love that you're a girl, and that you're _not_ a secret Quidditch groupie; Ivan hardly ever speaks, I know, but he appreciated your Bruise Paste ever so much. Shall I go on?"

Flustered, Hermione replied, "That's really all part of my job, Clara. Well, perhaps not being a source of gossip, but everything else? I'm just doing what I need to do to make sure that you all are functional."

The Chaser's face grew earnest and serious. "That's why we love you, Mia. Because you try your hardest to help us and do not fawn over us like we are gods. You're here to learn and do your job, just like we are. So far you've managed to avoid the circus of the media, but that is likely to change at some point, and I won't have you unprepared. And if preparation looks like primping and preening, so be it. I won't let you get eaten alive."

Touched, Hermione impulsively hugged the Chaser and then quickly stepped back.

"Thank you," she said, heartfelt. "I have never particularly cared for...primping and preening, so I could definitely use your guidance and would really appreciate it." Thinking for a moment, she added, "And for navigating the ball, too, I think."

Mistress Lazarov and Clara exchanged a glance.

"As if I would let my apprentice show herself badly," the Healer sniffed, crossing her arms.

"And as if I would let a friend show up to the biggest party she ever attends dressed in a paper bag," Clara scoffed. "Mia. Don't worry. We will protect you. And between me and the team, you have seven—well, six—older siblings."

"And considering you're not of age," the Healer added, "I fully expect your guardian will attend as well, like I mentioned earlier. It's all for the appearance, you see. Nobody actually cares. They just pretend they do."

Ah. That was...comforting? Hermione merely nodded, not knowing what exactly to say to that.

Hands firmly situated on her waist, Clara declared, "Now, the biggest concern: the dress."

Hermione blanched. "I don't have a dress." Biting her lip, she wondered if she could get one of the staff back home to send her one. Her parents, of course, were already in France, and wouldn't particularly bother themselves with something that trivial anyways. Perhaps if she could call up Lucy, one of the housekeepers? "I could get one sent from home—"

"Dmitri?" Clara was having one of her strange telepathy moments with Mistress Lazarov, who was nodding.

"I'll send him an owl. He likes me much better than you."

"That was _one time_!" Clara protested. Mistress Lazarov simply looked at her, and Clara amended, "Okay, two times. But! I really just had to."

"You always 'just have to'." It was said exasperatedly, but fondly.

Hermione was dying to know what they were talking about but didn't feel as if it were her place to ask. Even if they were being friendly towards her, how was she to know if they were actually, truly friends? What if she accidentally said something that made them mad, and left her on her own again, like had happened with her and the boys? She always managed to make a muddle of things like this. No, best to stay quiet until she knew better.

With a promise to take Hermione shopping soon, Clara absconded with Madam Lazarov to do whatever it was they so often did during lunch, and Hermione made her way to the dining hall. She had just sat down for lunch when she saw an owl flap in, weaving and bobbing until it collapsed on the table in a familiar pile of feathers.

"Errol?" she asked incredulously. "Are you here all the way from Egypt?"

The owl hooted wearily. Readily, she fed him scraps and stroked his head until the old owl, exhausted from his journey, had stopped trembling. It was only then that she looked at the letter he carried with him.

_Hermione Granger_

_Vratsa Vultures Stadium(!)_

_Bulgaria_

She smiled and opened the letter, curiously scanning the contents.

_Dear Hermione,_

_Mum said that I should send this letter to you at your house, but I couldn't resist sending it to you at the stadium. Blimey, now I can say I've sent mail to someone who worked at one of the semi-finalist teams for the World Cup! I'm positively mad with envy. Can you get them to sign an autograph for me? And Viktor Krum! What's the bloke like? Word is, he's the most talented seeker since Glynnis Griffins, who caught the snitch after a seven day match. Nobody can do what that bloke does with a broom. Have you seen him do a Wronskei Feint? Never mind. You probably wouldn't even recognize one if you did. But, well, tell him if you see him that Ron Weasley is his biggest fan._

Hermione grinned despite herself. If there was one thing Ron was, it was Quidditch mad.

 _Things in Egypt are amazing_. _Bill's shown us all around the tombs and stuff. Did you know that Pharaoh Thutmose is a ghost? It's_ wicked. _Anyways, we're all excited about the Quidditch World Cup coming up. Fred and George told me to tell you that Krum's a good Seeker but they think Ireland's got it in the bag this year, although Ginny told them they're full of it. Apparently the Egyptian papers have an Arithmancer on staff that's running equations._ I _think it's a load of rubbish. Bulgaria is going to make it to the finals and win. I'd bet my Exploding Snap set on it!_

_Ron_

"Funny letter?" Viktor's voice inquired from above her. She glanced up, still smiling, to see him standing by her with a giant plate of food in hand. "Can I sit?"

"Of course!" She scooted over on the bench and he sat next to her, carefully folding his legs underneath. She'd always wondered why they'd gone with benches like they did at Hogwarts since there were so few people they served at once, but she supposed she would never know. "And yes, it's from Ron. He and his family are on vacation in Egypt, but instead of telling me about it, he spent the entire letter talking about Quidditch!" Shaking her head, she exasperatedly continued, "They're all Quidditch mad, the lot of them."

Viktor shrugged. "There's worse things to be. Though I'm also a professional quidditch player, so I might be biased."

She looked at him and then dissolved into laughter.

"Of course," she giggled. "What am I even thinking, saying that to you?"

He grinned back, the smile changing his face from something serious to something, well, shockingly attractive, if she was honest. His eyes lit up from underneath dark lashes, and he looked almost boyish. Her breath caught in her throat at the realization.

Meanwhile, Viktor leaned over her to snag the letter and skimmed it. Casually, he summoned a quill and scrawled something at the bottom. "Send him that in your next letter."

It took her a moment for her attention to snap back, and she looked at what he'd written.

_I'll try to make sure you don't lose your Exploding Snap set. Mia would be rather put out with me if you did. -VK_

"Viktor," she breathed in delight. "Ron is going to lose his marbles over this." Ron was going to either be insanely jealous of her and not speak to her for months, or Hermione would be in his good graces for months to come. Since he would have something that none of the other Weasleys had from Viktor Krum himself, she was leaning towards the latter. "This is brilliant. Thank you so much."

He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable under the praise. "It is no matter. I thought he might like it."

She nodded quickly. "Yes, he'll love it!" Thinking about posting it once she'd penned her response, she frowned. "I've still got to get an owl so I can send it back."

"You don't have an owl?" he inquired, brows lifted in surprise.

"I've always just used Hedwig—Harry's owl—or one of the school owls. This is the first time I haven't been able to use another one. I keep meaning to get one, but I forget with everything going on. I'll have to go this weekend, and I've got to go into town anyways to get Clara a thank you present for helping me with the Ball."

Viktor looked confused so she quickly sketched out the situation for him. Halfway through the explanation he began tapping his chin in thought, and he said, "My mother can help you with this also. There are customs and things you may not know, considering you're Muggleborn, that she can help teach you. You know," he said a bit awkwardly, "because she's—we're—Purebloods. She'd be happy to help, I'm sure of it."

Hermione's mouth ran dry. His mother? She would have to meet with one of the nobility of the wizarding world. Her mother had always hidden her away when they had had important visitors over. She would never be able to measure up to someone like her. "Your mother? Viktor—I couldn't possibly—I'm sure she'd very busy—"

"Stop being silly, Mia, and accept the help," Viktor said. "Like Clara told you, we're your friends. And besides, you are alone here, aside from Mister Quickfoot. Let us do as friends and family do and support you. Besides," he continued ruefully, " _maika_ would love this. She has always wished for a daughter, but got me instead."

"If you're sure…" Hermione said dubiously.

"I am very sure."

"Viktor," she said suddenly, "Can I ask why you are being so kind to me? I know we didn't get off on the right foot, and I'm aware that I can be, well... really, just an overall swot," she acknowledged ruefully, "and I don't really get on well with people. So really, I suppose, why would you want to be friends with me?"

Simply, he replied, "You're nice, and you don't care about my fame. You listen to me and ask me about _me_. Do you know how rare that is?"

Hermione was taken aback. "That's it?"

"When you don't have it, that's a lot. It also helps that you like many of the same things I do," he added, offering her a small smile. "That's fairly rare."

Her throat went dry, and she took a sip of water. It was humbling to hear that simple kindness and interest was all he needed to form a friendship. Although, she reflected, it took less for her and Harry and Ron to become friends at the outset. Perhaps she could gain and keep another valued friend that same way.

Squarely, she looked into his eyes and said, "I'm happy to be your friend, Viktor. And I'm thankful for the offer of your mother's help. I'd like to meet her very much."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday...things are a bit rough at the moment for me at work, and I just found out my uncle has Covid, so I'm afraid I'm not as good a mood as usual. That being said, I've about hit 130K for this fic and I think I've got roughly 35-30K left before I hit the start of GoF. I'm writing about 10K a week between this fic and some others I hope to share soon, so things are moving onwards as ever.
> 
> Please stay safe, all.


	18. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I have to look at this chapter one more time... -.- I hated this chapter and I rewrote it like three times, but I still hate it. Alas. Here were are.
> 
> Just a little update: I am having a significant amount of personal issues at the moment including medical mysteries that have popped up just this week and have required testing. Sorry for my tardiness. That being said, I still plan on updating once weekly with the exception of this coming week (29 June) and the week of 13 July. I'm on vacation and plan on doing some extensive editing of what I've got written and the second time I will be having a medical procedure...hopefully my first and last.
> 
> For those of you who enjoy Bill/Hermione, I will be posting a fest fic soon for the Naked Weasley fest going on in Hermione's Nook on FB. Be on the lookout around 8 July!

Viktor was still thinking about her artless question several days later as he waited outside her house for their outing into town. He knew she would be taken aback by the birds at the emporium—none of them were owls—and had offered his services helping her choose one. She had readily agreed, and they decided to get the bird and have it delivered to her house while they went to Krum Manor.

_Viktor, can I ask why you are being so kind to me?_

What kind of life must Hermione have that simple kindness was confusing? He had seen behind her words and did not like their implications. His observations of her with the others showed a somewhat shy, uncertain girl who wanted badly to fit in but was unsure of her welcome. What was Hogwarts like if it was snuffing out such a bright flame? Were the English truly so close-minded to deny the brilliance and beauty housed inside her slight frame? And what about her muggle parents? Had they not fostered her intelligence and enabled her excel?

He had many questions, and he feared he would like none of the answers.

Idly, he looked at the flowers in the small front garden. They were so bright and alive, much like she was. _Maika_ would like them. Perhaps one day he could get Hermione to cut some and he could give them to her? Yes, that would be good.

The door opened, and he looked up at Hermione, who was looking a little pale and nervous. "Mia?" he asked, concerned. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing at all." Absently, she touched the space below her neck where a pendant would hang as if to grasp it for comfort, but nothing was there and her hand fell away a bare instant later. "I was just wishing there was more time, you see," she told them as they began the short walk to the Square, her speech getting progressively faster. "I wanted to read some about Pureblood etiquette so I could be prepared for the meeting, and I didn't have time because I was behind on reading, so I'm not ready at all, and what if she doesn't like me—"

He stopped in the middle of the road and took her by the shoulders, which caused her flurry of words to come to an abrupt halt. "You sound like I do before a game sometimes when my nerves make my brain turn to soup. Stop overthinking it. You will be fine. My mother was ecstatic about the visit and kissed me on the cheek twice. She hasn't done that since I told her I wanted to be a Weather Witch."

He didn't tell her that his mother's delight was a result of the fact she thought that he was dating her, but he didn't want to broach that mortifying subject. The humiliation of having to tell his mother multiple times that, no, mother, Hermione was _just_ a friend and we are _only_ friends, was sufficient embarrassment on that front.

Milena had not looked quite satisfied by his proclamations, and he could only hope she would not further compound his humiliation by doing something backhanded and sneaky in front of Hermione.

"It's only just that there are so many things I'm not good at," she said fretfully. "I'm okay with some things, like basic comportment, but other things…" She looked up at him. "I'm really just rubbish. Like dancing, for instance."

"Dancing?" he repeated incredulously.

She nodded. "I tend to overthink things too much, so by the time I figure out where I should be going my partner is aeons ahead of me. It really just…." she blew out a breath. "It really just doesn't go well for me. Ever."

Internally, he sighed. His mother would definitely make them work on that if Hermione were as truly terrible as she said she was. Casting a look at his feet, he resigned himself to some pain later on in the day and left it at that. There were much more interesting things to think about, such as her comment on being terrible at flying as well.

"It's a relief to know you're not good at everything," he teased, trying to bring some levity to the situation.

She threw her hands into the air, exasperated. "Of course I'm not perfect! Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Having seen your track record over the few months, I would say that you're fairly good at almost everything I've seen you try to do."

Dryly, she responded, "That's very kind of you, but it's completely untrue. I've got the social acumen of a goblin, the fashion sense of a toad, and the athletic ability of a rock."

Her harsh assessment of herself took him aback. "I wouldn't say you're all that bad socially, honestly. Fashion wise, I hardly ever see you out of work clothes, but you look very nice today."

Her dress was a flattering cut and color that brought out slightly auburn hints in her hair, which was loose from its usual braid. Although she had followed suit and kept her hair confined in a braid most days at work as Krasmira did, he found that her loose curl framed her face in a rather pretty way.

Realizing he had been staring at her rather for longer than was polite, he cleared his throat before continuing his previous train of thought. "I do find it rather hard to believe that you're not good at flying."

"I'm not. I'm really, really not."

"Any reason why?"

She paused, then confessed in a rush, "I'm extremely afraid of flying. My first time on a broom did not go well at all—I ended up out of control and Madam Hooch, the flying instructor at Hogwarts, had to come save me. Ever since then, I've been absolutely horrid at flying and freeze up the second I get on one." She tugged at the narrow belt of her dress in an effort to get it to lay flat, avoiding looking at him. "Honestly, Viktor. I'm just no good. Even Ron and Harry gave up on me about flying."

That did not bode well, but he mulishly persisted. "I'm not them. One day, you and I will go flying together, and I will help you become proficient."

She laughed. "That's a very kind offer, but you'd have to bribe me to get me on a broom." Shivering, she shook her head. "The last time didn't go well at all."

Sensing he was fighting a losing battle, he shelved the discussion to be revisited at a later time. It was preposterous that she was working for a professional quidditch team and couldn't fly respectably.

"Well," he said, determined, "we'll fix up your dancing first before moving on to your flying. I'm sure _Maika_ will be glad to help."

More like gleeful, if he guessed her correctly.

"You make it sound so easy." Hermione sighed, disheartened. "I'm afraid it's not that cut and dry."

"I'm sure it's not as bad as you say. Enough of that subject: it's never fun to discuss our shortcomings. Instead, let's talk about the emporium and birds you are likely to encounter."

Predictably, she perked up. "In one of the books I purchased recently, there was a section on Bulgarian wildlife, but it wasn't particularly detailed about anything in particular. What kind of birds should I expect to see at the emporium? Will there be owls?"

"Typically in Bulgaria we favor predatory birds and swifts since there are more of them native to the country than owls. The last time I was at the emporium was to get my own Raya, which was several years ago now. I think you will enjoy the experience, and you'll certainly have the most exotic 'owl' when you return to Hogwarts!"

His distraction technique appearing to work, she gave him a rare, full smile, her eyes shining. "I would certainly say so. Ron and Harry will be fit to be tied!"

When they arrived at the Square, Hermione quickly purchased a trinket at one of the cart stalls to give Clara to show her thanks. Viktor thought it unnecessary but sweet, and Hermione seriously perused the stall at length to find the perfect item. At last, she settled on a thick set of burgundy ribbons— "so Clara can tie her braids with them," she explained—and they were off to the emporium.

Hermione's eyes instantly went round when they entered the spacious store, and she craned her neck to take in the birds freely flying around the glass-domed ceiling. "Oh, that's a booted eagle," she recognized, and frowned in concentration as she tried to pick out other breeds. "And that's a northern goshawk. Viktor, do I just pick one out?" she asked absently, tracking a beautiful tawny Saker Falcon as it glided on an air current.

"No," came a stern, low voice. They both turned around and came face to face with a sturdily built middle-aged man in simple robes. "The bird chooses you. Not the other way."

Nonplussed, Hermione stared at the wizard and waited for further instruction, but none was forthcoming.

"Well, then," she took a breath, "I suppose I shall just...er, go stand in the middle of things, hm?" Squaring her slim shoulders, she did just that, leaving the two men behind.

"An interesting bird you have brought, Viktor," his cousin, twice removed, said. "Did she choose you?"

Viktor sighed. If he had known bringing Mia to Dafo would result in questions being asked, he would have found another emporium to go to. However, Dafo's was the best, and he wanted the best for Mia. "No, _bratovched,_ she did not 'choose me'."

At that moment, Hermione looked over at him excitedly as a red-winged kite circled her twice and began banking in front of her.

"Hold out your forearm," Dafo called out, demonstrating the bent elbow position that resulted in her arm being held out from her body and perpendicular to the floor.

"So you say," he murmured to Viktor, "but I find it very interesting that her bird is the same as yours. I would have thought a swift would be a better fit for her."

The red kite alighted on her arm, its talons gently gripping her skin so as not to scratch her. "You're for me?" Hermione asked, looking the intelligent hawk in the eye. The bird shifted up on her arm, wings fluttering, and began to preen her hair. She laughed and stroked a gentle finger down its tawny back. "I promise to take care of you," she told it before looking over at them. "Does she have a name?"

"His name is Svirep, which means fierce in English, I think? My English is not very good, I'm afraid." Dafo looked to Viktor for confirmation, and he nodded.

Although he had been working on his English extremely hard, he was much better at writing than speaking English, although that had not been a problem in the past since he was able to get by. He winced at the thought. It would very much be a problem when he was _living in England_ , an _English speaking country_. Damn. Yet another thing to work on.

"Svirep," Hermione tried out, her mouth forming around the word a little hesitantly. "Maybe Vi for short? What do you think?" The bird made no protestation, merely cocking its head, and she stroked his head, her face alight. "A bird of my own. Wow. What kind is he?"

This time, Viktor answered. "He's a red kite. I have one as well, though his markings are different. He has golden wings rather than red brown, and his head is, hm, caramel-coloured I would say, whereas Vi's is white."

Dafo and Hermione quickly settled the bill and logistics of getting Vi back to her house. Dafo cautioned Hermione about treating Vi like an owl, telling her that hawks tended to be more temperamental and less accommodating to strangers trying to use them to send return letters. "Svirep will listen to you: if you tell him to respect the person you are sending letters to, he will unless they are grossly rude and disrespectful, in which case, well." He shrugged and left it at that.

Viktor watched her coo at Svirep, who was happily nesting under the nimbus of Mia's curls. He hadn't realized precisely how curly her hair was since she always had it tightly braided at work. It was rather long, down to her mid-back, which helped the curls to gain some shape due to gravity. Idly, he wondered what it looked like when it was shorter. It was probably completely wild. Even now, it was such a contrast to her oft-constrained personality, and he considered if she was more suited to her hair pulled back, or loose, or perhaps if she was a mix of the two.

"Ready to go?" he asked, and she nodded, telling Vi she would meet him at home. The bird watched them both go, and Hermione turned back to give him a wave right at the door.

Amused, Viktor murmured, "he's just a bird."

Hermione sniffed. "He may be 'just a bird,' Viktor, but now he's _my_ bird, which means I will love him. I actually have a familiar, Crookshanks, but he's at home right now. I wasn't sure how he and Magellan would get along. I do miss him."

"I've only got Raya," he told her. "She is far enough for me."

When they reached a common apparition point, he placed his hand on her shoulder and she grabbed the opposite arm. "Ready?" he asked. "I know Apparating doesn't sit well with you. I'll take us to a place not too close to the house so you can get your bearings before I introduce you." He meant to be reassuring, but the slight paling of her face indicated he had done the opposite. Before she could overthink it anymore than she already had, he apparated them away to the small side garden with a crack.

True to form, Hermione was very green when they arrived, and he gave her a moment to compose herself. Luckily, she didn't need to vomit so they were able to avoid the inevitable clean up process that followed that. She clung to his arm for a few moments as she tried to regain her balance before straightening up.

"Are you alright?" he double checked with her to make sure.

She tugged her blouse into place and brushed at her hair. "Perhaps I should have braided it back," she said fretfully. "It's only that I never get to wear it loose any more…"

"If you're going to worry about inconsequential things like if my mother will dislike you because you didn't wear your hair in a braid, you're fine." He moved away from her, determined to keep going so the initial meeting that she so dreaded would be over and she could see for herself that Milena was not a fire-breathing dragon.

Next to him, Hermione took in a sharp breath as she got her first full glance of the manor. "Viktor," she choked out. "You didn't tell me you lived in a _castle_."

"It's not a castle," he said defensively. "It's just a large manor."

"'Just a large manor,'" she mimicked under her breath. "Whatever the terminology you'd like to stick with, the fact remains that you live in what I would quantify as a castle. There is a tower, a million windows, a courtyard, what I think are extensive gardens, and another giant building to the left behind the house."

He coughed. "That would be the Abraxan stables."

Hermione ran a hand over her face. "Right. The Abraxan stables. _However_ could I have forgotten those?"

"I wouldn't really say that this is more than other well-established Pureblood families' houses that I've been to," he argued. "Really, it's not that grand."

Hermione glared at him. "Let's just be grateful that my mother is related to nobility and that this is not my first encounter with something like that. Otherwise, I likely would have done something dramatic by now."

Viktor had never really considered the grandeur of the house, but he supposed it was rather ostentatious when examined objectively. The building was sprawling, consisting of the main residence and two wings on either side. The cream colour and tiled roof were light and airy, emphasizing the exquisite architecture, especially the two rotundas and the second floor balconies that overlooked the courtyard, gardens, and fountain which sat in the middle of the circular drive.

When taken as a whole, he could see how it could be imposing. However, he had only ever seen it as his home, one that he had a mixture of lingering good and bad feelings about. Every time he returned, he felt a semblance of dread and relaxation, wondering who he would find there. They approached the drive on the left hand side and lightly stepped up the stairs. Just like always, Enzo opened the door before he could knock, the house elf immaculately dressed as always.

"Master Viktor and Miss Mia," the elf greeted formally. "Welcome."

Lightly gripping Hermione's elbow, he stepped through the wide door frame into the foyer. Underneath his touch, he felt Hermione's tension increase at the sight of his mother, clad in a casual summer gown of lawn and linen, moving towards them, her eyes light and her step swift.

"Mia, darling, welcome to our humble home," she greeted warmly, hands outstretched. Hermione took them instinctively, and Milena kissed her cheek. "I am so glad to have you here. And Vitya," she scolded, "why must you persist with that scowl?" Turning to Hermione, she explained in the same breath, "He always scowls terribly when he is anxious, although what he has to be anxious about now, I'm not sure."

" _Maika_ ," he protested. "I am sure Mia does not need an explanation about my facial expressions."

"Tch," his mother waved away his protest. "You are too serious by half and your face always shows it, sometimes even when you're not feeling that way. So, Mia," she switched subjects smoothly, "how are you finding your time in Bulgaria so far?"

As they migrated to the summer room and took tea, Viktor listened intently as Hermione responded to the easy questions his mother posed to her, which were designed to put her at ease. Curiously, Hermione was most relaxed about the questions surrounding work, which she seemed to thoroughly enjoy, but was far more reticent and cautious about her personal life.

"And your guardian?" Milena questioned. "How does he seem to be finding things? Hopefully as pleasant as your experience?"

Hermione shifted. "Um, well, as good as can be expected," she replied vaguely. "I don't see him very often considering my schedule and his. We often seem to diverge from each other."

Milena frowned slightly at that but left it alone. He also found that comment slightly strange but did not want to question her in front of his mother for fear that she would clam up. She was already on edge to begin with, and he didn't want to lose what trust he had built up with her by asking sensitive questions at the wrong time.

His mother seemed to sense the fraughtness of the topic and switched subjects completely. As Hermione nibbled on a biscuit, Milena set down her tea and saucer. "Vitya, honestly I'm not sure she needs much help with etiquette," she told him. Looking at a startled Hermione, she continued, "You have exquisite manners as far as I can tell. There are cultural things that you don't know, of course, but I can easily teach you that."

Hermione blushed. "Thank you," she murmured. "I had some training when I was younger so as not to embarass my mother and father when they took me out with them on outings. I'm quite surprised but rather pleased that I have remembered them so well."

It was the second time she had mentioned her muggle parents that day, which was twice more than she had mentioned them before, and he was continuing to mentally compile a list of questions about them that he was looking forward to getting answered.

"Did those lessons include dancing?" Milena inquired, leaning forward.

Hermione laughed, though her eyes were solemn. "I'm afraid not. That's something I would have done when I was a little older, but then we found out I was a witch and formal training mostly went out the window as I was at Hogwarts most of the year. They're hardly home during the summer as they travel extensively, so I think they mostly forgot about it."

Viktor exchanged a fleeting glance with his mother. It rather seemed to him that she hadn't particularly had any reliable authority figures, which could explain her self-sufficiency and self-reliance. She was almost eerily mature for her age in some aspects, while in others she acted more like the teenager she was.

"Well," his mother said easily, "that is something we can surely remedy. As with any skill, it will take time to master, but today we can create a good basis for you to improve on. I think it will be important for you to have some sort of passing fluency in at least a few of the dances by the time the Ball comes around. For some reason, it has a large focus on dancing. I've never quite understood why," Milena mused, "considering all the athletes are Quidditch players, not dancers."

"Competition," Viktor replied promptly. "There's an ongoing leaderboard about which team has the better skills." Pyotr, backed up by Zev, had informed him of this only a few weeks earlier. Even the taciturn and often temperamental Keeper had been insistent that Viktor sharpen his dancing skills.

His mother looked askance at the information while Hermione coughed, unsuccessfully trying to mask a laugh. "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Milena said. "Truly?"

He nodded. "Truly."

Drawing herself up, she clapped her hands. "Well then!" she said brightly. "We must make doubly sure that you can represent the team in an admirable fashion."

Hermione's face dropped, and Viktor hid his own smile behind his cup of tea.

Shortly afterwards, they adjourned to the ballroom. His mother swept in ahead of them, saying the spell to light the room, and Viktor watched as Hermione looked at the grand windows and vaulted ceiling with an appraising face.

"This room is enormous," she said at last, turning to him. "It must be able to fit hundreds of people.

He nodded. "When I was little, the family used to host parties. All of society could fit in here comfortably, and it was a sight to behold."

She looked unaccountably nervous. "Viktor," she said hesitantly, voice low, "I don't belong in polite society, if that's what you all are calling Purebloods. I'm a muggleborn. Even in my own society, I'm kept on the fringes because I'm an—I'm an embarrassment to my parents." Her voice wobbled on the last.

Reflexively, he reached out a hand to comfort her. "Don't say that about yourself," he said fiercely. "Yes, it is true that in Bulgaria polite society is traditionally considered mostly limited to the Purebloods, but we are not so close-minded as that. There are multitudes of people who are accepted by virtue of their talents or their connections as well."

Flatly, she replied, "So the rich, the famous, the talented, and the Pureblooded?"

He resisted the urge to squirm like a little boy. Putting it that way made it clear how limited their 'polite society' really was. "Yes," he said reluctantly. "I suppose so."

She sighed, the severe line of her lips making her expression particularly displeased. "It's just like the muggle world, then. Wonderful. I'm hated in wizarding Britain for my blood and hated in Muggle Britain for all my other inadequacies, so what's one more place that will hate me for a combination of both? Wrong blood, wrong mannerisms, wrong skills...wrong, wrong wrong."

Her fatalistic acceptance of something that hadn't yet happened was completely out of character for her, and it made him mad. "Mia," he said commandingly. "Look at me."

At his tone, her head snapped up. Seeing that he had her attention, he continued, "What other people think of you does not matter. I am always thought of as some kind of mythical figure because I can fly well on a broom and catch a snitch. So what if I can? They do not know me, and still they deign to judge me. Their opinions don't matter to me because they can flip in moments due to some stupid article or a bad day on the pitch. What matters more is that I know who I am and who I want to be. So long as I am satisfied with myself, who cares what others think?"

"What that's all nice and good, that's easier said than done," she muttered rebelliously.

During his speech, Milena had drawn up beside him. Affectionately, she touched his arm. "It seems my little Vitya has grown up when I wasn't looking. I think they are wise words, but they may not be particularly helpful at this exact moment in time. Mia, darling, I know you're worried, but the Ball isn't something to be concerned about. There are people from all over the world attending, each with their own unique set of customs and experiences. Purebloods, muggleborns, half-bloods, rich, poor...they're all represented. Don't worry that you'll not be accepted. I guarantee you'll be just fine."

Almost timidly, Hermione looked at Viktor. "Do you truly think so?"

He nodded firmly. "I really do."

"So being myself will be enough?" The doubt in her tone made his heart twist. From what he was gathering, she truly had been found wanting everywhere she went. It was no surprise, then, that she seemed so anxious to prove herself. All she wanted was to be found sufficient. Not even excellent, but simply good enough that people accepted her.

"Mia. It's already enough. You are perfect the way you are."

Though he meant it, her expression was still unconvinced. "Thank you, Viktor. Now, shall we turn ourselves to the topic at hand? I really don't think that dancing will be a strong suit given that I am not athletically inclined in the slightest, but I would like to learn as much as possible so I can practice and get good enough not to make a complete fool out of myself."

"Have no worries, my dear," Milena reassured her. "I shan't let you out of this room before I'm satisfied you can work with the basics."

Several hours later, Viktor was wishing she hadn't made that promise because Hermione's prediction that she would not be a good dancer had borne fruit. If he were being completely honest, she was a truly atrocious dancer. She was unable to relax and she kept looking at her feet. Her body was a long line of tense muscle, and it made it hard to guide her. Multiple times, she had tripped over him and had stepped on his feet enough that he was no longer sure he was in possession of all of his toes.

Milena, however, was determined to see it through. "Eyes up!" she rapped out. "Back straight. Remember, after the turn you must return to his hold with the exact same arm placement you had before!" Her instructions were endless, and Hermione sagged underneath the weight of them all.

At one point, Viktor had called for a break and drawn Hermione towards the large patio attached to the back of the ballroom. As they walked, he placed her hand on the top of his wrist, explaining, "This is the traditional way to be escorted in a formal setting by your partner."

Her eyes darted down to where they connected before looking back up, curiosity making them gleam. "How interesting. Is there a reason why? I've always seen it where the lady had her hand tucked into the crook of the gentleman's arm."

"That's how it was taught to me," he said thoughtfully, trying to think of if he'd ever heard a reason for it. "I do know that our history had a rather violent period back in the 17th century where several factions fought over land. One of the bloodiest encounters occurred at a party where several wizards drew their wands and murdered many of the other party goers, who all happened to be landowners. The party is known as _kŭrvava iznenada_ , or the Bloody Surprise.

It could be that the custom evolved as a result of that so that wizards were easily able to draw their wands at the slightest provocation."

"Fascinating," she breathed. "That could also explain the custom of clicking your heels together when bowing to someone else instead of reaching out to hold the lady's hand and kiss it."

He grinned, amused at the way her mind leapt to make connections. "No, that's something completely different, and the etiquette for when to kiss a lady's hand or not is convoluted enough that it would take all afternoon to explain. So — place your hand on top of my wrist like so." He demonstrated.

"Easy enough," she allowed. "What else is there?"

Hmmm. For the Ball, there truly wasn't much else that he thought she needed to know. Perhaps how to act in introductions and how to accept a dance gracefully?

Thankfully, he thought wryly, neither required much athletic capability.

As they rested their legs, Viktor briefly explained the things she should do in both scenarios. Introductions were incredibly complex, but he was able to explain the most basic ones easily. He felt obliged to tell her about the Bulgiarian customs since they were what he knew, though he warned her they would likely vary in Britain. "In fact, he said, "they vary all over the world. At international events, we all greet one another according to our customs and go along with all of them as best as we can. It makes for some interesting scenarios, but the world is a varied place and it wouldn't do to disrespect one culture over another."

She nodded. "That makes sense."

"All of this means that you should not be concerned _in the slightest_ about your ability to mingle with others during the Ball. Moreover, our team as a whole has a tendency to stick close to each other, or so Pyotr told me, so you won't be on your own. You'll be fine."

Biting her lip, she looked away for a moment. "I'm sure I will be," she said, "but I just can't quite shake the fear of doing something that would somehow embarrass or—or—oh, I don't know, _imperil_ the team somehow?"

At that, he couldn't help but laugh. "Mia, this is a party, not a battle. Stop worrying. Although," he glanced back at the ballroom, "I might worry a little about the dancing."

The smile he had been trying to hold back slipped at her gasp. "Is it really that bad?" She asked, woeful.

"Let's just say it isn't your strongest suit. But—" he held up a hand to forestall the forthcoming flood of worries she was sure to have, "I am certain between my mother, the enchanted floor, and myself we can get you into a passable form by the end of the day."

He said that with outward confidence but hoped he wasn't lying. The floor, he felt, was their best bet, considering the charms Milena had turned on were created to teach wizards and would correct them while they were dancing. Getting the basics down would be a reachable goal, he felt.

"If you really think that's possible," she said dubiously, "then I suppose we should get to it."

He smiled encouragingly at her even as his feet twinged. Bracingly, he reminded himself that if he could survive a quidditch match then he would most certainly survive this, too.

The thought of Hermione's stiff, clumsy form against him only a few minutes earlier flashed through his mind, and he paused, sending up a prayer to Lady Magic that his feet would survive the next few hours before following her in.

After all, it never hurt to be safe rather than sorry.


	19. Chapter Seventeen

A few days after her encounter with the ballroom at Krum Manor, Hermione had had a particularly grueling day and was grateful to sit down and just relax for a moment. It wasn't that anything particularly awful had happened, but in between Vasily managing to get his arm broken, Pyotr getting his _fifth_ concussion of the season (and did she have some things to say about that), her research with Madam Lazarov on the efficaciousness of dual wand use in potion making, her inability to stop thinking about her dance lessons with Viktor, and her nerves about her upcoming outing with Clara, she was quite wiped out.

Heavily, she dropped onto one of the kitchen chairs, content to sit and stare at the grain of the table while the kettle warmed. A good cup of tea would set her right in no time, and surely after that she would be ready to read more about poultices while tucked away in bed. Right now she was even too tired to even consider sitting in the garden, and that was saying something.

A glint of something ivory on the floor caught her attention, and she saw a piece of parchment on the floor under the table. Perhaps she had accidentally dropped some notes that she had taken while reading?

When she picked it up, expecting to see her handwriting, she was greeted by the unfamiliar sight of a lighter, more spiky script than her own carefully rounded letters. Curiosity getting the better of her, she scanned the brief note.

_Magellan,_

_I managed to get the item you requested, although the wards for the location you mentioned were a bit slippery. I hope you know what you are doing with this, my boy. It is not something to be trifled with. In fact, I wondered for some time if I should have retrieved it for you at all, but I trust your judgement in this situation. Regardless, it's yours to do with as you wish._

_Be careful, my boy._

_AD_

She frowned. A music box was 'not something to be trifled with'? And where exactly did this AD person have to go to get it? And _who_ was AD? Perhaps Albus Dumbledore? That seemed somewhat plausible, at least.

"Ah, poppet!" Sirius, masked as Magellan, clattered down the stairs. She looked up from the table in surprise, quickly tucking the note into one of her robe's pockets. He was in his most insufferably Pureblood outfit, the whites of his shirt impossibly starched and the lines of his pants creased to perfection until they hit his snakeskin loafers. His thin, royal blue summer vest, which matched his pants, was buttoned to the top. "You're home early."

"Sirius," she said slowly. "It's half six. And what are you doing dressed like that?"

He waved it away, the motion graceful. "Half six, quarter to five, it's all the same these days, especially since I'm not keeping normal hours like you do." He winked, but his cornflower blue eyes remained flat and opaque. "Kitten—Hermione—I've got to ask you to do a damned uncomfortable thing and ask you to leave me the house for the night. I've got a, hm, _thing_ , planned, and you can't be here." His smile was tight but not remotely apologetic.

Excuse her? "I'm...I'm sorry?" Hermione managed to get out around her complete disbelief. "Did you just tell me you're kicking me out of the house?"

Sirius held up a finger. "Just for the evening, you know! It will be over quick as that."

It felt like she'd be blindsided by a Bludger. He was her _guardian_. Yes, perhaps it was more in name only than in actual deed, as far as she understood it, but they were supposed to support each other as best as they could, not...not do things like this.

"This is my _home_ , Sirius, just as much as yours. I get to stay here every night like you do."

He shifted, looking a little uncomfortable. "I know, really, I know, but Hermione, you can't be here tonight. You just—you can't, kitten. You've got to go."

"This is really out of nowhere. I just—I don't understand. Can I at least have an explanation?" she asked, sitting back against her chair. "If there's something dangerous going on, I think I should know so I can, at the very least, prepare some potions or poultices to heal you if you're injured."

Waving a hand, he dismissed her. "I don't think those will be necessary, Hermione, although I do appreciate your care. Really, something's come up and I think it's better if you aren't here for it."

She frowned. "I don't particularly see what could happen that could make me need to leave the house. Besides, I really think that I could stay and help—"

"I don't _need_ your help," he told her, interrupting. His shoulders squared and his mouth flattened. "What I need is for you to leave."

Stung, she stood, feeling the beginnings of anger stir within her. "And where exactly should I go, do you think?"

Sirius shrugged and pulled a small bag out of his pockets, lobbing it to her. Reflexively, she reached out and caught it, hearing the clink of coins from within. "I think there's a hotel down the way," he said, pointing towards the Square.

She laughed in disbelief. "Sirius, I'm fifteen years old. I'm not old enough to even rent a hotel room! Please, can't I just stay here?" Her voice was rising, and so was the feeling of quiet, complete panic inside her. Who was this man standing in front of her? The wizard she knew was one who was haunted, sure, but thus far he'd been a fairly good guardian and companion.

Sirius ran his tongue over his teeth. "You really, really can't. You've got to have friends, right? Couldn't you stay with them?"

Huffing, she asked, "Friends? In Bulgaria, where we've been less than a month?"

He winced, but ploughed on ahead. "What about from work? Couldn't you ask to stay with them?"

The thought of owling one of them and begging to stay at their houses made her want to be sick. Hermione Granger wasn't one to ask for charity, and she wasn't willing to ask people she was only just beginning to become friends with for help. She had been raised to be independent and to figure things out on her own, and by Merlin she would do that.

But, one part of her mind suggested quietly, _what about Viktor? He would help you. Perhaps him, or perhaps even Milena?_ As soon as the thought entered her head she dismissed it. It wouldn't do to bother them.

Besides, her mind had supplied an easier alternative. Sirius's mention of work made her think of the Healing Halls, and there were thirteen good, functional beds there. She'd floo to the stadium and sleep there. She just had to wake up early and make it seem as if she'd gotten to work early.

"I've got it figured out," she responded shortly. The kettle began to whistle, then, and she stared blankly at it. Tea wouldn't fix this. "I'll go to the Quidditch stadium. There are beds in the infirmary."

But she had to try one more time...swallowing, she looked at him. "Please, Sirius. Won't you tell me what's going on?"

He watched her with an inscrutable gaze. "I can't."

"So that's that, then?" She angrily pushed a loose tendril of hair out of her face. "That's all you're going to tell me to explain? 'Something's come up and I don't need or want your help, you useless girl, so get out of my house.'"

Something pained flashed across his face, but he stayed his course. "It's not like that," he said quietly. "But Hermione," he looked at the old clock on the wall, "you've really, _really_ got to go."

Incredulously, she looked at him before smiling, thin lipped and tight. "Fine. So be it. But Sirius? I won't forget this." She strode up the stairs, her anger and hurt propelling her.

Eight minutes later, she was gone.

The stadium was a strange place to be at night, even with the sun still setting as it was. The stands cast long shadows over the pitch, and the hoops' shadows in particular made strange circles on the grounds. That, combined with the lack of any other human being, made her shiver.

The Healing Halls were the same as she had left them only a short time ago, brewing potions in stasis, the beds neatly made, all the bandages and potions needed in an emergency ready for use on trays or in bags.

She chose a bed at random to make her own for the night and placed her bag on the foot of the bed. That being done, she had little else to do. She was unpacked for the night, and it was still hours from bedtime.

Staring sightlessly out the large, wall-to-wall window that showed the quidditch pitch, she allowed the adrenaline of the last hour to subside and gave way to the more immediate feelings of pain and hurt.

She and Sirius had been thrown together more by happenstance than anything, but she had believed that the man she had known to be innocent, who had shown her he was trying to recover from his time in Azkaban, who had woken up haunted from his friends' deaths, was a man worth knowing. The man who showed himself tonight was not the man she had thought he was, and she wondered if the Sirius she thought she knew was perhaps an incomplete picture. Truly, she hardly knew him or his motivations aside from that of his single-minded desire to hunt down Peter Pettigrew.

Well. It hardly mattered, did it? She was stuck with the man until the summer was over. She'd given her word to Professor Dumbledore, and she wasn't one to break it. Aside from that, she wasn't willing to give up her position with the team. The experience was one she would never get again.

Sighing, she turned and picked up a book before saying the spell to vanish the floor-to-ceiling window and walking through it. The sun was still bright enough that she could read by natural lighting, and it seemed better somehow to sit outside than sit on one of the beds inside and pretend everything was fine.

It was only after she had gotten onto the pitch that she realized there was nowhere comfortable to sit, and she relocated successfully to an empty spot in the stands a few minutes later. It was a strange experience, given that she had never actually sat in the stands here before, instead having only experienced things from the pitch.

She hadn't expected to see one of the players flying around the pitch still, their robes flapping in the wind behind them as they effortlessly sliced through the air. Squinting, she tried to get a better idea of who it was, but then the player crouched over the broom in the prelude to one of the moves he was famous for, and Hermione knew it was Viktor.

Her book remained closed on her lap, and she just watched him for awhile as he flew and flew and flew, endless loops of seemingly impossible acrobatics accomplished with ease. Watching him made her acutely aware of just how skilled he was. There was something about Viktor with a broom, some kind of innate ease that other players lacked in the quantity Viktor had it in. Of course, it wasn't innate talent—the fact that he was here practicing after everyone had left attested to that—but he had some kind of relationship with flying that made it beautiful to watch.

It almost, but _almost_ , made her want to fly.

She smiled at the thought and looked down at her book. Hermione Granger and flying were two things that never would fit together. No, she was destined to stay with her feet planted firmly on the ground.

Suddenly, Viktor's trajectory switched from a fast, sweeping arc to something slower and definitively angled towards her. He'd seen her.

Indecisively she stood, wondering if perhaps she should flee. How would she explain things to him for why she was here? Believable excuses would be few and hard to come by for explaining why she was here long after everyone else had gone for the day.

Viktor came to a stop in front of her, floating right by the edge of the stands. One hand gripped the broom handle easily as he took off his goggles. "Mia?" He frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"I…." she floundered. "Well, I—you see, I was just wanting some, hm—," she stumbled, trying to come up with an excuse that didn't say, _my guardian kicked me out of the house and this was the only place I had to go_. To her complete and utter horror, her voice broke on the lie she was attempting to come up with, and a tear streaked down her cheek.

"Mia? Mia, what's wrong?" A bare instant later, Viktor had swung his leg over his broom and came into the stands, his warm hands gently gripping her shoulders. "Talk to me, _mila_."

She shook her head and knuckled away her traitorous tears as they made their slow way down her cheeks. "It's nothing, really. I can handle it."

Viktor shook his head impatiently. "You wouldn't be crying if there weren't something amiss. Now tell me what is wrong, and we will fix it."

That fierce statement—the loyalty underpinning it—made her crumble. Slowly, haltingly, she explained what had unfolded earlier that evening, and Viktor's grip became tighter and tighter as his face grew darker and darker. His nostrils flared, and he said, "that _kopele_. That….that fool. To think he can just do something like that to you, that he can just kick you out without any repercussions?" He gave a short crack of laughter, the sound empty of mirth.

"Viktor," she murmured, growing a little alarmed, "it's not as bad as you think it is. It's just one night. You'll see. It's not that big a deal."

He looked at her incredulously before lightly shaking her and crushing her to him in a brief, sweaty hug. "You're stupid if you think that's true," he told her, holding her at arms length once more, his hands sliding down to lightly hold her wrists in a gentle grip. "Don't you see? He could easily do something like this again, and you would have no recourse against it. And haven't you mentioned that he has been absent more and more and has been keeping strange hours? Mia, this is neglect."

"It's not all that bad," she insisted. "Really, it's not. Today is the worst thing he's done by far, and really, Viktor, I can manage fine. My parents were never terribly present when I was younger, either, so I'm used to it and can get around on my own." At that, his entire face crunched in on itself for a moment before smoothing out. "I think it's just the housing situation that got me," she finished, voice small. "I can figure everything else out. I always do."

Carefully, he released her and took a step away, running his hands through his hair. "You shouldn't have to 'figure everything else out'," he said with an awful patience. "You shouldn't have to think of any of these things. You're a teenage girl. You should be worrying about school, and friends, and boys, and quidditch. Stuff people our ages think of."

He ignored her protestations that he was being too dramatic and told her, firmly, "We are going to go to my house, and you are going to spend the night. In the morning, we are going to go to my mother. You are going to tell her everything that you told me, and we are going to fix this for good."

"Viktor—I don't—"

He slashed a hand through the air, stopping her protests. "I don't want to hear it right now, Mia. Just. Just do as I say, and we will talk about it when we get home."

Quelling the urge to ask him if he was sure that he wanted to take her home with him—he certainly _seemed_ very sure—she quietly told him her things were in the Healing Hall and let him Apparate them down there. Her stomach roiled as they materialized by the door, but she said the phrase that made the floor to ceiling window disappear and stepped through. As soon as she gathered her things, he gently set his hand on her waist and moved close to her, his dark eyes looking down at her as tension thrummed through his body.

"Hold tight," he told her, and then all that was left in the Hall were empty beds.

They landed only moments later in a spacious living room, the ceiling tall and the wood flooring dark. She stared at the wood grain for a minute as she got over her dizziness and released Viktor, who still looked angrier than he should.

That didn't keep him from being gentle with her as he asked, eyes dark, "Okay?" When she nodded, he stepped away and paced the length of the room.

"Viktor," she started hesitantly, and he held up a hand to stop her from saying anything, though he did stop pacing and instead stared at the ceiling, taking a few deep breaths.

"I do not like this," he told her bluntly. "I do not like that your so-called guardian had the nerve to kick you out of your home like this. He, a trusted confederate of your Headmaster, has accompanied you to a strange country where he should be protecting you and is instead leaving you to fend for yourself."

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she argued. "It's really only this evening that posed any problem, but I managed to suss out a solution."

He spun to face her. "Yes, by sleeping in an infirmary bed!" He heaved a breath and ran a hand over his face. "Forgive me. The thought of you being alone without help makes me rather...unreasonable. Please, make yourself comfortable. I need to go calm down, but I will return soon."

Nonplussed, she watched him disappear moments later and return with what must be his own personal broom. He summoned a glass of water, handed it to her, and was gone a moment later.

It was strange, she thought ruefully, how the men in her life seemed to come and go so easily.

Her fraught mood was somewhat assuaged by the fact he had been so obviously upset for her, although she wondered at his rather sudden display of anger on her behalf. It seemed that Viktor, who had thus far seemed fairly even keeled, could have a temper underneath his exterior. Interestingly, his solution for that was flying, and she wondered if perhaps he turned to flying as a mechanism to solve his problems. Of course, if that was true, then lent a new nuance to his involvement with Quidditch.

She had just begun to prowl around the living room curiously, angling towards a group of portraits and landscapes on the far wall when Viktor barged back in, his hair ruffled and the broom clutched in his hand. "I am an idiot," he told her, his brow furrowed. "I abandoned you just like Quickfoot did."

Perplexed at his behaviour, she looked at him. "Not everything is so dramatic," she responded, biting down a sudden, inappropriate giggle. "You were mad. You went to calm down. I'm not upset in the slightest that you left."

He looked uncertain, and the broom sagged toward the floor as his grip loosened. "You're sure? I wouldn't want to be as unreliable as him."

"You aren't at all. Viktor," she laughed somewhat incredulously, "you took me from the Quidditch pitch and brought me into your home. You took me in and gave me a place to stay. I would say that's anything but unkind."

He carefully propped the broom against the wall, sighed, and dropped to the couch, resting his arms on his legs. "It has been a rather eventful evening, hasn't it?" he asked ruefully, looking up at her.

Walking towards him, she rested her hand on the arm of his chair. "I would definitely say so. Really, it's been an eventful day for the both of us. I really do appreciate you taking me in," she said earnestly. "Really."

The corner of his mouth curled up a little. "What are friends for? Any time you need help from me, you say the word."

Her heart stumbled a little bit at the words and expression on his face. Had anyone ever said something to her like that before, let alone meant it? She would be hard pressed to recall a time.

Impulsively, she replied, "Me too, Viktor. I feel like we've become such good friends rather quickly. I'm so glad I've met you, really. I think I would have been rather lonely here if we hadn't become friends."

Playfully, he took her braid, which she hadn't yet even had time to take out, and tugged it. He grinned when she scowled and swatted at his hand, "Me too, Mia."

About to say something else, he was interrupted by her stomach, which gave an audible growl. At her abashed look, he laughed, something full bodied and unrestrained. "Dinner?" he asked, standing.

Feeling daring, she said, "Only if it involves ice cream."

He laughed again, and her lips curled in satisfaction. "Athletes don't get things like ice cream during the season, though it would certainly be nice."

A house elf popped into the room in front of them, a little less formally attired than Enzo, the butler from Krum manor, but still extremely well dressed all the same in a neat dress and butter yellow apron. "Master Viktor wants ice cream?" she squeaked, ears pricked and eyes bright. "Mippy can get ice cream, yes she can. Mippy will serve ice cream after Master Viktor eats his vegetables." She looked mutinously up at Viktor, and he nodded meekly.

"Of course, Mippy. And you don't need to get ice cream." Bending his head towards Hermione, he murmured, "Islov would kill me if he knew."

Laughter bubbled up within her, and she said seriously, "Must avoid that, shall we?"

Meanwhile, Mippy was shaking her head furiously. "Mippy must bring the ice cream. Young Miss is sad! Young miss must have the ice cream."

"Thank you Mippy," Viktor told her gravely. "I am sure Mia appreciates it."

"Please don't trouble yourself over it if it is hard to find," she hastened to reassure Mippy. She would really feel terrible if Mippy spent a lot of time looking for something she had said off the cuff as a joke.

Mippy's ears drooped. "You doubt that Mippy can find ice cream, Miss Mia?"

Horrified, she scrambled to say, "No, no, I didn't mean that at all! I'm sure you'll do an excellent job."

Just like that Mippy's ears were back up and she nodded decisively. "Mippy and Posy will serve dinner at the kitchen table, please." With a pop, she was gone.

Hermione stared at the space where she had been, amused, and Viktor lifted a brow. Dryly, he said, "Mustn't be late for Mippy's dinner now, shall we? I can't wait to eat my vegetables, after all."

The aforementioned dinner, as it turned out, was delicious. Privately, Hermione thought the ice cream, which had been obtained from places unknown, was better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii surprise! I managed to get this ready before I have no internet connection this weekend, yay!
> 
> Things are beginning to get interesting...


	20. Chapter Eighteen

A few days after he had come across the hunched form of Hermione sitting in the stands, Viktor had to set his concerns about her aside and don the robes of his public persona. Cognizant of the promise he made his mother, Viktor prepared rather grimly for the party he was to attend.

Because it was hosted by Radomir Kostadin, the patriarch of one of the longest-lived and most respected Pureblood families in southern Europe that had extensive business ties across the region, the fête was sure to include the premier wizarding families in Bulgaria and other assorted high profile individuals.

Ones like himself, he thought dryly as he donned his robes, a thin weave of linen lined with acromantula silk. Anything to make the fete an event to discuss in the weeks to come.

Sighing, he looked over the carefully calligraphed invitation and gripped the small metal crest, the portkey to the evening's location. At approximately seven, he felt the familiar hook in his navel and then he was in Sophia at the Kostadin's summer home, a spacious, airy affair nestled on the coast in Burgas that made one think of languid evenings spent in enjoyable conversation with friends.

The reality was much different.

"May Ingrede take your robes, Master Krum?" A house elf in Kostadin livery stood at the opened double french doors, wide yellow eyes staring at him unblinkingly.

"No, thank you." He would prefer to keep his armour on, however hot it made him. And it _was_ hot, the salty summer air thick and humid as it drifted in from the Black Sea and wound around him. He could already feel his shirt, a thin navy linen, beginning to stick to his back.

"Brother!" Svetlana approached him almost instantly, her startling silver eyes glittering above an equally startling golden dress that dipped low in front and even lower in the back. She was, of course, impeccable from head to toe, her bronzed skin glowing. He wondered what charm she had used to make her normally wintry skin so naturally tanned but found he didn't care enough either way to spend another moment thinking about it.

"Svetlana," he greeted in turn. Hands were bent over; cheeks were kissed; and he was made uncomfortable by her nakedly lascivious gaze before he was carted off into the crowd, Svetlana's hand a shackle around his forearm that he could not escape.

"You simply must meet Irina," Svetlana was saying. "She's been a guest at our house for the past few weeks—here from Saint Petersburg, you know, a family friend—and she's simply been dying to meet you."

"I await your introduction with baited breath," he lied without pause, subtly trying to loosen her grip on his arm.

Svetlana's tinkled laugh grated against his ears. "You are too charming by half, Vitya. I can't understand why you haven't snapped someone up, yet. _Every_ lady wants a piece of you."

A brief image of messy curls tamed into a neat braid flashed in his mind. "Not everyone," he replied dryly, distracted by the thought that Hermione had come to mind so easily at Svetlana's comment. Why would he be thinking of her now?

"Stop being so modest," his sister-in-law chided, ripe red lips parting in a silken smile. "You're quite a catch, you know."

He resisted the urge to point out that she had already caught him simply by the death grip she had on his arm, knowing that she wouldn't take it kindly. "Where's Kosta?" he asked instead.

"Oh, around here somewhere," Svetlana dismissed her husband idly. "Probably talking about business as usual. He can be so very dull at times."

Viktor gritted his teeth but managed some sort of pleasant reply, though he would be hard pressed to recall exactly what he said. If there was one person he could say he loathed with absolute certainty, it was Svetlana, who Kosta had married at their father's insistence and who had slowly leeched the very life out of him.

"Viktor! How very good it is to see you!" Radomir Kostadin, a heavyset, barrel-chested man with a propensity to be loud and an even bigger propensity to make it a habit of knowing everyone who was anyone, approached him, beaming, and heartily clapped him on the back. "Good game against the Moroccans, eh? That maneuver of yours against the other Seeker was simply brilliant. Come, several people are waiting to talk to you. After all, it is not every day we are in the presence of a national figure, hm?"

Viktor was so grateful for the chance to be rid of Svetlana that he departed to be mauled by fans with alacrity. He accepted their compliments and spent the next half hour giving vague predictions of the team's next match, telling the witches and wizards clad in gleaming summertime finery that he would be honored that they would be there to see them at the next match. Some of them who fancied themselves true Quidditch players gave him advice, which he pretended to listen to and thanked them for as sincerely as possible.

It was all so empty and predictable, he thought. Nothing anyone had said interested him, as he had all heard it before. The sheer banality of attending yet another party was enough to spoil his appetite, though at least the canapes were as good as he remembered.

However, he had promised _Maika_ that he would attend, so he made his best effort, talking, engaging, and doing his best to further ingratiate himself with others. Nobody treated him particularly seriously, of course, as he was just a Quidditch player, and even when he was more than that, he was just the second son. Of course, second sons had the responsibility of the lands, but these days wealth was not generated there—it was generated in deals that happened at parties like this by the true powers that be.

The shine of golden hair caught Viktor's eye as he was discussing his last year at Durmstrang with one of his classmate's fathers, and he turned. Moments later he found what he was seeking, and he took in a sharp breath. It was Mister Quickfoot, clad in his finery and directing that genuine, dangerous smile of his at none other than Svetlana, who was looking rather self-satisfied.

"Ah, caught sight of Quickfoot, did you?" Kostadin looked rather satisfied himself when he spied the pair talking to some decidedly foreign wizards. Their robes, while of the newest cut and finest fabrics, were much too heavy for the Bulgarian summer. "He is a rather charming fellow. If you don't know him, I rather think you should. He has some excellent connections back in England, you know," he said confidentially.

"I know the man," he replied shortly. _A rather charming fellow_ indeed, he thought sourly, thinking of Hermione's quaking shoulders set against the backdrop of a nearly set sun.

Kostadin turned in surprise, his face never losing its perpetual smile. "You do? I had so looked forward to the idea of introducing two of the most interesting men I knew to each other."

"His charge, Mia, works as an apprentice healer with the team," he explained, and left it at that, hoping it would end the conversation.

Instead, Kostadin seemed thrilled, clapping him on the shoulder and exclaiming, "Excellent! It would be rude not to say hello, what with your beautiful sister-in-law Svetlana with him and all."

Hand lightly gripping his shoulder, Kostadin weaved through the crowd. "Gentleman and the fair Svetlana," he greeted the group. "Viktor and I saw you having far too much fun without us and decided we simply had to join."

Interestingly, Svetlana bypassed the opportunity to latch onto Viktor, choosing instead to give him a knowing smile from her spot next to Quickfoot. "Viktor," she said smoothly, "I've heard that you've met Mister Quickfoot?"

Viktor pressed his lips together and nodded. "Briefly. I am...good friends with his ward, Mia."

Quickfoot laughed, the light sound pleasant. "Mia? Is that what you all are calling her these days?" He looked at the group and easily said, "I suppose Hermione is too much of a mouthful. Honestly, I don't know where her parents came up with the name."

Lightly, Svetlana dismissed, "Muggles are such strange creatures, aren't they?"

Viktor felt the familiar heat of anger start to heat his blood and took a deep breath. "I think it's a lovely name. It's just unfamiliar and hard to say, that's all."

His sister-in-law shrugged one dainty shoulder. "Mia is as good a name as any, isn't it? I don't particularly see what you're making a fuss about."

One of the two men, who had been silent up to now, shifted his lean form forward, his long mahogany hair slipping over his shoulders. "While Hermione is, of course, of the utmost interest, given that she's your, hm, responsibility," he said in cultured tones, "I think it only polite to observe the niceties. It is, of course, what separates us from the rabble. Mister Krum, I am Frederick Mulciber, of the Sacred Twenty-Eight in England, and this is Louis Avery, also of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

Viktor nodded to both, noting that Quickfoot seemed intent on his reaction. "A pleasure, I'm sure," he responded politely. "I hope you are finding Bulgaria to your liking on your visit."

Mulciber casually slid his hand into his pocket, weight resting on one foot in a relaxed pose. "It has been rather nice," he remarked. "I myself am not a frequent visitor, but Louis recently told me something I had thought lost to me forever is rumoured to be in the area."

"Yes," Svetlana added, "Mister Mulciber is a...rather avid purveyor of rare and valuable artefacts."

Interested almost despite himself, Viktor asked, "What kind of artefacts?"

The other English wizard, Avery, vaguely replied, "Oh, this and that. Although I do find Dark artefacts to be of particular interest simply given their propensity for having abilities and sometimes even personalities of their own. I tend to collect such trinkets because I find their study so fascinating."

Privately, Viktor thought that the wizard, who had close-set, glittering eyes set in a long face, seemed like someone who would collect to display his collection of wealth rather than collect to study.

"That is how we connected with Magellan," Louis added smoothly. "I had met him before, of course, under different circumstances—" he smirked slightly "—but I find we have much more in common now that we did before. Why, just the other day, he was able to obtain and show us a rather rare artefact. Eurydice's Lullaby, it's called. Have you heard of it?"

He tried to think back on his reading from the last few years. "That is the music box that causes listeners to fall into a trance and remain spellbound?"

Quickfoot nodded, a slight smirk on his face as he said, "I've close...associations with the family who has had possession of it for ages, and I was able to get a hold of it eventually, though it required quite a bit of work."

Now Avery looked pleased, and Viktor had a feeling there was an entirely separate conversation being conducted under his nose. His feelings of distrust and blossoming dislike for the man solidified. Even had he not been as neglectful to Hermione as he had been, there was still something distinctly...strange, about Magellan Quickfoot. Someone who was able to get access to a fête after living here for such a short time was either extremely powerful or had extremely good connections.

With Quickfoot, he couldn't tell, and he didn't particularly wish to know.

"I'm sure it's fascinating," he said politely. "I find my interests lay in the sky, as you all are aware—" everyone laughed as he meant them to "—or in the land itself. I suppose I am much too focused on the elements to consider Dark artefacts of interest."

At his words, Avery and Mulciber nodded, seeming to accept his words at face value. He always found it interesting that people were so quick to write him off. In this case, however, he found himself glad, as it let him escape the intent, blue gaze of one Magellan Quickfoot.

An hour or so later of meaningless chatter, he felt he had fulfilled his obligations and could escape. Making his excuses, he made his way to the exit everyone wishing him well as Kostadin insisted on toasting him. "To Viktor, who will bring Bulgaria to victory!"

"To Viktor!"

He smiled even as he sighed inwardly, feeling the heavy mantle of responsibility resting on his shoulders.

Hopefully things would go to plan tomorrow.

They had to.

o-O-o

The next morning dawned bright and clear, a most favorable set of conditions for a match. As soon as he arrived at the stadium time sped up as he was caught in the traditional match-day tumult, though he wished time would pass faster as he dealt with the special edition QWC presser they had been roped into.

Dutifully, he posed with the team on the ground and in the sky, by himself and with others as the lights of the camera flashed. As he watched the Chasers and Beaters pose together, he noticed that Pyotr and Clara, who normally always posed next to each other, had kept Ivan and Vasily between them. Narrowing his eyes at the sight, he wondered if something was amiss. They couldn't afford for it to be, not with the game happening in eight and a half hours.

"Everything all right?" he queried, angling his broom towards Pyotr a few minutes later.

Pytor affected a confused expression. "What are you talking about?"

In response, Viktor merely angled his head at Clara, who was having a solo shot taken of her racing around the stadium.

The Beater's shoulders tensed. "Nothing's wrong."

He arched a brow. "Well, whatever _isn't wrong_ ," he parroted Pyrotr's words, "I would like for it to be fixed before the match tonight. We can't afford to have any kind of friction on the team whatsoever right now."

"You think I don't know that?" Pyotr fairly growled, running a hand over his head of unruly hair. "I don't know what happened—she won't _talk to me_ —"

Whatever he was going to say next was cut off as the reporter for _Selfridge's International Gazette_ , one of the most widely circulated papers in the wizarding world, approached them. They ran through the typical gamut of questions — _How are you feeling about the game today? What do you expect to encounter on the field? Worried about Echunga's skill with the bat? No? Karoonda's uncanny snitch-finding abilities? What do you want to tell the fans that will be listening by radio at home?_ and so on, until Islov came storming over and asked them what was taking so long.

He had no chance to finish the conversation with Pyrotr as Islov threw them into their pre-match routine with a vengeance. Thankfully, he found comfort in the rituals, first stretching out his whole body until limber before cleaning his broom meticulously by hand and conducting some final broom tuning with his wand. Then it was time for hand exercises, a light meal, some quick drills, six meditative circuits around the pitch, and the pre-match speech given by Vasily, who was Captain of the team for the game.

By that point, the stands were filled with fans, a swath of green and yellow competing against the darker burgundy and black for dominance. He stretched his arms behind him as he idly watched a family settle in on the stands, a little girl with curly hair watching the field eagerly. Even though her hair was fair and pale, the curls reminded him of Hermione's when she let them loose.

The thought made him look over at the familiar opaque window that the Healing Hall was located behind, and he wondered if his arrangements with Madam Lazarov regarding his mother had come through. He had gotten permission from Demetrius to have Milena attend his games if she stayed with the Healers in case the excitement became too much or she began to feel ill.

The thought of her locked behind the window, watching him from the infirmary, made something clench inside him. Her health was so fragile these days.

He shook his head, unwilling and unable to entertain the thought, and made another loop, making sure to pass by the little girl and salute her with a flick of his finger. She gave an excited yell, bouncing up and down, and a small smile tucked itself onto his lips.

Only bare minutes later they were all assembled in starting formation. Moments later, the game began in its familiar rush, and he was quickly immersed in the familiar chaos happening beneath him as he soared ever higher into the powder blue summer sky, his eyes intent on the space below him for that familiar flicker of gold. He saw Karoonda slowly circling the space by the Zograf, her body tense in a way that shouted she had seen something, and he flew towards her.

There! A glimmer of gold between the left and center hoop—he dove for it even as Karoonda spun around and sped towards the same place. But then the snitch was gone, flying low towards the pitch closer to him. The familiar exhilaration of the hunt was on, and he found his teeth bared in a fighting smile as he bent over his broom. Karoonda could get dusted. That snitch was _his._

Not even a moment later he had pulled up from where he had sworn he had seen it, the space empty of the glittering golden ball. Frowning, he rolled his shoulders. Where the hell had it gone? Damn thing.

High above him Vasaily shouted and swerved suddenly, and he gave a laugh. There it was, his _malük priyatel_. It would not escape so easily this time. Angling his broom, he banked swiftly and flew up, spiraling as he wove around the frenetic paths of the players throwing Quaffles and hitting Bludgers. Narrowly, he missed the bristles of Monteith's broom as he arrowed past the Australian Chaser.

He overshot the snitch as it suddenly zigged back down and he cursed, gritting his teeth and plunging downwards.

Karoonda, who had been hot on his tails, had her hand outstretched in front of her as they both strained for the snitch. Looking at the distance between her hand and the snitch and his placement, he realized he wouldn't make it in time unless—

He hooked his ankles around the broom and threw himself down into the air, lunging for the snitch. His fingers touched a wing and he grabbed at it again, this time closing his grip firmly around it.

He had done it. The match was theirs.

The photo on the front of the papers the next morning was of him laughing in exultation as he hung upside down from the broom in the infamous Izenbard Lunge. _**KRUM CATCHES SNITCH AS AUSTRALIAN BEATER LEFT IN COMA BY BLUDGER: BULGARIA GOES TO SEMIFINALS!**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I have returned! I am really grateful to those of you who asked how I am - I have been pretty sick but am now on a good set of medicine to regulate my internal organs so hopefully I won't be that sick again lol 
> 
> I have also gone through a large confidence crisis with this fic in tandem with my health issues. For a long time I was unsure if it was worth continuing, honestly, because I felt as though it may not be worthwhile or that people enjoy it. However, there are a few people who seem to enjoy it, so here we are! I can't promise regular updates or anal retentive editing as I used to due to the fact that I have two jobs and am still recovering, but I will try to post as frequently as I can.


	21. Chapter Nineteen

It was finally finished. She looked up from _Moste Potente Potions_ and cast her eye critically over the gently bubbling potion to her left. It was an exact match to the illustration and description.

A giant wave of relief crashed over her, rendering her almost limp on the stool. She had managed to correctly brew Polyjuice, the potion that she had been sent here to brew. Of course, she had to start it all over again beginning tonight so Sirius had a continuous supply, but she had managed the first batch.

Extremely carefully, she decanted the potion into batches of vials that Sirius could use as single dose applications and carry with him. She wasn't sure how he was taking it or precisely when, but this would give him flexibility to do as he pleased.

Time passed quickly as she finished that task and prepared her ingredients for the next round, and a _Tempus_ made her yelp in dismay. She would be late to meet Clara if she didn't get ready for their outing now.

Quickly, she scampered up the two flights of stairs to her room and freshened up, putting on a casual dress of pale blues and whites and loosening her hair from its restricted braid. The loose weight felt so good that she let out a breath as her scalp relaxed.

She fairly tripped out the door, her heart light with excitement. To be fair, she was definitely nervous, too. She'd never really spent time with another girl like this before, let alone done something so wholly feminine as dress shopping. Before Hogwarts, it had really just been her, and then once she'd befriended Ron and Harry, it had been just them. Well, and Neville too, sometimes, but the point still stood. This was something new, and something different, and she didn't have any reference material to know how to act or what to say.

Yet still, as she strode into the Square and up to the fountain, she found that she was teetering on the brink of being more excited than anxious. Clara had never been anything but nice to her, and she felt a sense of kinship with the witch. Clara, too, was surrounded by and friends with almost exclusively boys. Surely they could at least connect over that.

"Mia!" Clara waved her down, and Hermione tried to stop herself from gaping in astonishment. The Quidditch player, who always looked so sporty, was wearing a wide brimmed hat and a thin-strapped, flowing dress with kitten heels. Her hair, which was normally braided at the sides before it fed into a fishtail, was loose and flowing in waves that glinted in the light.

She was, Hermione admitted, absolutely stunning. Biting her lip, she looked down at her own dress, which she had thought chic and appropriate, and felt the stirrings of inadequacy. "Hi Clara," she greeted quietly.

Clara rolled her eyes and pulled her in for a hug. "None of that missishness," she chided. "Save all that for work. Out here, we're just friends hanging out and shopping. And may I say, Mia - that dress you're wearing? Absolutely cutting edge. Why, I think I saw it in a magazine the other day."

She brightened at the compliment but returned modestly, "I suppose you could have. I tend to mail order a lot of my summer clothes from the catalogues my mum has."

"Well," Clara said breezily, "your mother must be a woman of fashion! This makes me even _more_ excited to get your dress for the Ball. Anyhow, our appointment with Dmitri is soon, and he does not tolerate tardiness. Why, this one time…."

Clara chattered all the way to the storefront, regaling Hermione with stories that had her giggling at multiple points as they walked arm in arm.

"And so," Clara concluded, "I told him that if he ever tried to bring a chimpanzee on a date again, I would call the Department of Magical Creatures down on him! Suffice to say," she slid Hermione a sidelong look, "there was no second date with Yurik."

"I can certainly see why not," she giggled. "A chimpanzee on a date? One might say he was, er, monkey-ing around!"

Clara shot her a look of surprise and then chuckled, squeezing her arm. "Ah, Mia, I do like you. Monkeying around. Ha!"

At this point, they had stopped in front of an obviously high-end boutique, the script on the window reading _Dmitri's_. If it hadn't been for the gowns she could see in the store itself, she would have had no idea what this place was.

Clara opened the door and sailed in like she owned the place, caroling, "Dmitri darling! You are never going to guess what I have brought you today!"

Hermione, who had followed Clara in, heard a vague thud, and then a somewhat waspish, "It's likely nothing good, coming from you!"

Clara huffed. "Like I said last time, my idea for a chiffon tea gown was only that _one time_. Why must you harp on things in the past? And besides, you are definitely going to forgive me now that I've brought you _Mia_." She said her name like it was something significant, something good and exciting.

She wasn't sure she'd ever heard herself referred to that way.

Warmth was blooming in her chest even as an inordinately tall, lean man with a mop of black curls emerged from the back, saying, "Whoever this Mia is—" His gaze landed on her and he stopped mid-sentence, his mouth pursing for a moment.

"Hm."

"I _know_!" Clara said gleefully.

The wizard looked at her, and she resisted the urge to squirm under his assessing gaze. "Fine. I accept your apology," he threw at Clara, who squealed. "You, little girl. What's your name?"

"Hermione," she responded, "though almost everyone calls me Mia here."

He nodded slowly. "Tch. Only fools would anyone shorten such a formidable name." Clara, who had been the one to do so, made an expression of offense. Dmitri continued on, his Russian accent making his words clipped. "So. You need a gown for the ball. Anything else?"

She started to reply in the negative when Clara piped in, "Professional robes for the conference!"

Conference? "What conference?"

The Chaser rolled her eyes. "Do I have to do everything for that woman? I swear. You are going to some conference in Italy in a few days. Just for the day, but Kras told me to make sure you have something to wear."

Swallowing all her questions, Hermione gave Clara a wide-eyed look as Dmitri waved her onto a platform in the middle of the room.

She spared a brief look around the rest of the room to see if there were perhaps others, but it was just the one. In fact, they were the only people in the entire space. Besides the gowns adorning the few floating mannequins throughout the room, there was an entire wall of mirrors, a chest on the floor next to it, two chairs, and a small side table with a few refreshments.

All of it positively screamed selective and expensive, and Hermione was suddenly very glad Daddy had sent her that money earlier. The conversion had taken a chunk out of it, but it was still more than she could ever hope to spend.

"Well," Dmitri said brusquely, "If you're quite finished gawping, get on the platform so we may begin." She immediately did so, and he continued, "You have much potential. You are willowy, but have not yet reached maturity, so we will not play on that angle. Instead, we will highlight your strengths."

Casually, he flicked his wand at the chest by the mirrors and it flew open, bolts of fabric flying toward him. "I am thinking, because you have nice skin, we will highlight that. Your neck is long, and your hair…" he paused as he weighed some kind of sage green fabric against that of a softer, darker brown, "...your hair, once it is done properly, will shine against it all."

Almost dizzily, she contemplated his words. He thought she was willowy, and had nice skin, and a long neck. Her. Bookish Hermione Granger had all of that. But her hair?

Dubiously, she looked at the mass of curls, which were hanging in rebellious spirals down her back. They had been trained by the braid into some kind of obedience, and the dry heat had helped them relax from their normally bushy texture. "My hair? I don't really think it'll do what you want...It's always been disobedient at best and a terror at worst."

"Nonsense!" Clara responded at once. "My mother is one of the foremost beauticians in all of Wizarding Europe. If you think I don't know a charm to whip that into shape, you doubt me far too much."

Pausing, Hermione tried to put together the mental image of Clara, the world-renowned Quidditch Chaser, and her beautician mother. She failed.

Although...she looked appraisingly at the smartly put together woman, perhaps she had been judging the book by its cover far too much. Far be it from her to make blanket judgements about what people could and couldn't do based on a few facts alone.

"I would like the help," she replied, and then yelped as a bolt of midnight blue fabric suddenly leapt at her.

"Hush." Dmitri fairly rolled his eyes at her as the bolt of fabric flew around her, the material unspooling as it went. "A diagonal drape, if you please?" Obligingly, the fabric changed course and wrapped around her from shoulder to opposite hip. Dmitri made a hissing noise and the poor fabric immediately recoiled, the tip drooping.

"Back around," he instructed. "Wrap from shoulders to hip in one piece. Good, now cut." The fabric, which had wrapped around her and slid underneath her arms, separated from the roll. "In below the bust." The fabric cinched in, and Dmitri circled her appraisingly. "Hm...very good. Yes. Now, the top." Stepping forward, he raised his wand and aimed it down at her chest.

Alarm surged through her, but a quick look at Clara revealed the witch calmly nursing her second glass of wine, this time a white, and watching with no small amount of glee. While she was deciding not to panic, Dmitri had continued to loom over her with a commanding look on his face, and she felt the fabric moving across her chest.

When she tried to look down, Dmitri barked, "Don't move!" Immediately, she became as still as a statue, not moving even as something crawled up her shoulders and around her neck.

Minutes later, he stepped back, made her spin, and then began tweaking the fabric with his wand, muttering as he did so. When another bolt of the same inky blue fabric flew towards them a minute later, hovering in the air next to Dmitri, she didn't startle.

"So," Clara drawled, "while you're being made into a goddess right before my very own eyes—Dmitri, amazing work as always—I would very much like to know...How are things with Vitya?"

Blankly, she looked at her friend. (And she was a friend, wasn't she?) "I'm afraid I don't know a Vitya," she replied after considering all her possible responses.

Clara clucked and crossed her legs. " _Vitya._ No? Viktor?"

Oh, _Viktor_. Her Viktor— _their_ Viktor, she amended. "What about him? Is he okay? Last I saw, he was fine…" Her brows drew together.

The auburn haired witch let out a giant sigh and leaned back against the chaise more fully. "He's fine, obviously. You wouldn't let him be anything but. But what I _meant_ ," she said, as if it was obvious when it had certainly not been, "was how are things between the two of you?"

"Between the two of us?" she parroted back, her confusion mounting. "Things are...fine? I mean, I know they're fine."

After all, he had let her stay at his house only two weeks ago, and they had continued their new-found tradition of lunch time studying and conversation. This week, they had even ventured out to the spot by the river where they had had their first disastrous encounter and eaten their, both of them comfortably sharing a picnic blanket Viktor had transfigured from his quidditch robes.

"So….there's nothing there? Are you just friends?"

She frowned. "What else would we be?" They'd already been enemies, and Clara wouldn't be looking so expectant if she had meant that. So if not enemies…

She felt herself flush from the roots of her hair to the tips of her fingers. "You mean—you mean _romantically?_ " She squeaked.

Clara nodded vigorously. "Yes, Mia! What else did you think?" She laughed, then frowned abruptly. "Actually, your reaction tells me all I need to know. Damn. So you both aren't dating or courting?"

"No!" She instantly responded, vehement. "Whatever gave you the idea? We're just friends!" Viktor and her? Not likely.

But was it _unlikely_? A faint voice in the back of her mind asked. He was kind, and he was very, very smart and mature. And he was very handsome, she admitted to herself, scrupulously honest.

But them, together? She couldn't fathom it. There were so many secrets she was holding onto, and then Viktor was so burdened by everything. If she had feelings for him—which she didn't!—it seemed unfair to confess them to him during such a high stress period of his life, especially when she couldn't be totally honest and forthcoming with him.

"No, she said at last. "We definitely aren't."

"Enough talk of men," Dmitri interrupted Clara as the woman leaned forward, an unholy light in her eye. "We must discuss the gown. Turn and look."

Relieved at the reprieve, she did as he asked and gasped at the sight that greeted her. "Oh, Dmitri," she said somewhat dreamily, "it's beautiful. I can't believe it. Is this me?"

Smugly, the wizard said, "Of course it's you. It's just you in a gown that I have made most specifically for you. Now, take it off and we will begin on your professional robes. I am thinking caramel."

"Whatever you say," she agreed, still caught up in the image in the mirror. Even with the times she had dressed up for formal events at her mother's command, she had never looked like this. Never felt like this.

Could she truly be...pretty? She wondered at the thought as Dmitri much more quickly put together a stunning set of robes and a dress for her. Could she still be herself, even if she looked like that?

Lost in her thoughts, Clara had paid for her gown before she knew it, waving away Hermione's protestations and shepherding her out into the bright light of the afternoon sun.

A bit dazed at it all, Hermione blinked.

"It's almost always like that," Clara said sympathetically. "You look almost exactly like I did the first time I left Dmitri."

"I was...pretty."

The light knock of Clara's shoulder against her own startled her, and when she looked up at the older woman, she was giving Hermione a disappointed look. "You're already beautiful Mia, inside and out. A dress doesn't make you beautiful: it just spotlights what's already there."

She pondered that statement the whole way home after they finished a late lunch and split up. When she got home, she even indulged in a fit of vanity and looked in the mirror, trying to see the girl she had seen in Dmitri's shop.

All she saw was herself. Normal, bookish Hermione Granger, with the creased brows, the too large teeth, and stupid hair.

"Well," she told her reflection, which looked resigned, "I suppose that settled, then."

That fruitless endeavor finished, she grabbed several books and her notetaking supplies, wandering outside to sit under the shade of the tree in the garden. Time passed as she devoured chapter after chapter until she was forced to move inside due to heat and hunger. She grabbed an apple and munched on it as she settled on the settee, her legs curling under her as she made a note on her scroll.

It was only the sound of the front door opening that caused Hermione to look up some time later, and she watched as Sirius carefully wiped his shoes on the mat before he stepped in. He had been absent on and off more and more frequently since that night he asked her to leave the house, always returning looking strangely exhausted but bright eyed. Every time she had asked about what he had been doing, he'd either been extremely vague or outright brushed her off, so she'd eventually given up. But this time….this time something was different about him. Something...strange.

"Welcome back," she carefully greeted him, trying to gauge his mood.

He took off his robes and threw it at a magical coat rack, which reached out and neatly caught it. "Thanks kitten," he replied. "How was your day?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "Pretty typical, really, although Zograf got hit in the face by a Bludger."

Sirius winced. "That would hurt."

"By the way he carried on, you'd have thought he'd gotten cursed by something rather terrible," she confirmed. "I never would have thought it, but he carries on almost worse than any of them, even though he's angry the entire time."

He laughed, but the emotion didn't reach his eyes, which worried her. It seemed more often these days that he would act one way but feel another, or say one thing but mean something different. Sirius was changing, slowly but surely.

Given that she'd met him when he was a traumatized convict on the run, she really didn't have a good baseline to measure his behaviour against, so she wasn't sure if the changes were a return to the behaviour he'd once had or if he was becoming someone different. Were the changes indicative of healing, or were they an indication of something darker?

Not for the first time, she wished she had someone to talk about this with who could help her. She felt terribly out of her league and alone.

Taking a deep breath, she plunged in headfirst. "Have a good evening?"

"It was fine," he responded distractedly, rummaging around in the kitchen cabinet for a glass. Finding one he liked, he poured a tall glass of whatever drink he liked and stared into the amber liquid for a long moment, as if he was looking for answers to questions he had. He tipped the glass up and drank it in one long pull, setting the glass down and pouring another in almost one simultaneous movement.

Cautiously, she said, "You don't seem particularly fine."

In the midst of bringing the glass to his lips, Sirius paused and turned his head to face her. She was struck still by the queer look in his eyes, the glittering, almost feverish intensity within making her mouth dry.

"I said," he repeated deliberately, head tilting to the side, "I'm fine."

Absently, she smoothed the page of the book sitting in her lap, the action soothing her even as her anxiety ratcheted up. "I'm a little worried about you, I must admit," she forged on, feeling her heart begin to beat faster. "Ever since that night you kicked me out of the house, things have been strange with you. You've been in and out more often, and when you come back, you sometimes seem...off. Unlike yourself. What's happening when you leave? Where are you going? What are you doing?"

Carefully, Sirius set the tumbler down on the countertop and prowled towards her, that strange light still in his eyes. When he was a mere breath away, he stopped, looming over her. This far close to him she could feel some strange...silken, addictive feeling lingering in the air. It made her want to get closer, to do whatever had caused it so she could wrap herself in it. Yet her brain was warning her rather stringently that that feeling was _wrong_ , and that she should be getting as far away as possible.

"Hermione," Sirius told her, hair spilling over his shoulders and partially shrouding his face, "The things that I have done, you don't want to know."

She swallowed, feeling somewhat muddled as that aura continued to surround and envelope her. What did he mean? What had he been _doing_? Stubbornly, she replied, "I think I rather do."

A lazy smirk curled his lips, and he tucked a loose curl behind her ear. The action, rather than being comforting, sent shivers down her spine.

"Those who fly too high too fast tend to get burned," he murmured, trailing the finger across her cheek. She recoiled away instinctively, her hand coming up between them, and he chuckled softly. "Don't be an Icarus, kitten. Stop asking questions you don't want to know the answers to."

With that, he strode back to the kitchen and his glass of alcohol, leaving her paralyzed in place. That strange aura she'd been feeling dissipated, making her think it was _Sirius'_ own aura that had been so...seductive, yet alarming.

Biting her lip, she backed down, unwilling to broach the subject again after that rather...disquieting interaction, and closed her book. She wasn't going to get any more reading done downstairs, if at all, so she packed up her note taking supplies and headed upstairs for the evening.

Neither she nor he offered their typical evening goodnights, and for the first time that entire summer, she locked her door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the heck is Sirius up, that's what I wanna know. 
> 
> I wanted to say thank y'all so, so, so much for the reviews last chapter. I can't say how much they all meant to me, especially how much you guys seemed to care about my health. I really can't express it, but really - thank you. 
> 
> Also, I wanted to do another prompt fic giveaway because I found the last to be so fun (it's what caused Meet (Un)Cute to happen, in case you're wondering). We're at like...idk, somewhere around 500 followers overall, so let's just pretend that was a fun goalpost or something and it's why I'm doing it. (It's not. I'm just making up an excuse.) 
> 
> So for the first signed-in person to leave a review on the fic, I'll contact you and we can do another cute fic giveaway! Drop me a note telling me your thoughts and let's get this party started :)


	22. Interlude - A Loyal Man

_Harry,_

_Happy Birthday! I hope you enjoy the present I've enclosed. It's not much, but I hope it tides you over until I see you again and can give you something better in person._

_While I wish I found it hard to believe that Petunia has done such things as you described in your last letter, I can't say it took me by surprise. She was always unpleasant, even when she was young. Personally, I think she was jealous of your mother, who truly excelled at almost everything (although it did take a substantial amount of work, mind you). It didn't help that Lily was marked as different because of her magic, and Petunia thought that meant she was somehow better than her. Whatever her rationale was, Petunia's bitterness towards Lily grew until there was hardly any love left. By the end of fifth year, Lily preferred not to go home over the summer because it was so tense at home._

_On the subject of homes...when I get Pettigrew in my grip and have him confess his crimes and my name is cleared_ _ ~~would you perhaps consider~~ _~~_Bollocks_~~ ~~_Don't say that_~~ ~~_Bugger_~~

_Look, I'll just say it right out. Harry, do you want to live with me? I don't ever want you to feel like I don't want you. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I want you with me, and I hope you want to be with me, too._

_Now, I know it's fair strange because I'm also an escaped convict, so I don't want you to feel pressured either way. But I don't want you to feel abandoned or alone, not when I'm here. I've felt that way before, several times: when my family disowned me comes immediately to mind. But later on, when I was thrown in Azkaban, the group fighting Voldemort that I was part of didn't bother trying to visit me, let alone make sure I got a fair trial. I had never felt so lonely knowing my friends and allies—Dumbledore, Remus, and everyone else—had left me to rot._

_Well. That got serious (or should I say Sirius, eh?) quickly. All I'm trying to say, really, is that I'm in your corner, and as soon as I can, I mean to do everything I can be with you, no matter what stands in my way. If you'll have me, that is._

_Padfoot_

Sitting back, he blew out a breath and looked at the letter. It was as good as it was going to get, he felt, and it was completely honest. Once he got Pettigrew in his grasp, he intended on wringing out a confession no matter what it took. Veritaserum, curses, hexes, or anything in between. Pettigrew was the key to his freedom, and with his freedom came Harry.

Hearing about the situation at the Dursleys had made Sirius see red. In fact, reading the letter had made him so angry that he had blacked out for a moment, and when he had come to, most of his room had been blown to bits. Luckily, Hermione had already been gone for the day when that occurred, or she would have been in his room demanding to know what had happened faster than a niffler went for gold. Instead, she had been gone, and he had had the entire afternoon to slowly imagine the various ways he could have...dealt with them. Most of them had been bloody, and, well, fatal. Let it not be said he wasn't a true Black at heart, despite his parents' opinions otherwise.

Truthfully, Harry's situation reminded him of his own when he was young, although his, hm, misfortunes had been at the hands of his own parents. His mother had hated him at the outset, it felt like. No matter what he did, it was never sufficient to gain their approval, and as time went on, his mother's vitriolic words had shifted into vitriolic behaviour that left him bruised, bloody, and broken more times than he could count.

_A sorry excuse for a wizard. A foolish waste of space. A mistake I wished I had never given birth to._

All words his mother would scream or hiss or yell or taunt. Walburga was above things like physical violence, but she had honed her skill with her wand into a fine art.

And all the while, his father had merely sipped on his Firewhiskey while locked up in his study, the perfect picture of indifference. It didn't matter to him that his Heir had mysteriously fallen down the stairs, or had two broken bones, or thrown up blood. Not if he was patched up enough to pass muster in public.

Regulus, of course, could do no wrong, especially once he had displayed a Dark Affinity. His younger brother had, somehow, been born with something that Sirius should have had but didn't. Instead, Sirius had neither a Light nor a Dark affinity, rendering him less than ideal as a breeding candidate for the Pureblood marriage market. Reggie had had it, he thought bitterly, but then Reggie had always had everything.

At least he had had his cousins, he reflected, though Harry didn't even have that. Andy, Narcissa, and even Bellatrix had been kind to him when they saw him, though that had evolved as they had gotten older and their allegiances shifted. Slowly, he had grown closer with Andy as Narcissa and Bellatrix had drifted away, although a few days after he had almost killed Severus Snape by werewolf Bellatrix had come up and congratulated him.

Of course, even that association had been culled when he had been disowned. The ritual, so quick despite its earth-shattering effects, had ripped his familial magic out of his very core, leaving him a broken, silent mess on the floor that Kreacher had wordlessly thrown into the street like rubbish.

It had set him adrift, close enough to watch his family but no longer invited into the fold, no longer able to participate in family rituals, no longer able to carry out his responsibilities heirs of Most Ancient and Noble Families had. He told himself, on nights when the chasm yawned deep and painful where his family magic used to lie warm and quiescent, that he would be better without such shackles. That he would be free to do as he wished, with no restraints.

It still didn't help, and he had often found himself crying in his sleep, that wound forever bleeding and hurting. At times like that, James, Remus, and sometimes even Peter had come and slept with him, warm, reliable presences by his side. They never said anything in the mornings after, instead pushing food and raunchy magazines at him with the insistence it would fix everything.

But then Peter betrayed them all, killing James, killing Lily, framing Sirius, and leaving Remus to believe that Sirius himself had done it.

Even their loyalty, he had discovered, was not as adamantine as he had believed.

That betrayal and abandonment had been accompanied by the swift abandonment of the Order, who, having seen him dumped him in Azkaban, promptly forgotten about him.

No, he reflected idly, there really was no such thing as loyalty, was there? His family had thrown him over, his friends—even closer than family!—had betrayed him, and his comrades had left him to rot.

And yet, somehow, almost despite himself, he had felt those chains closing around him at the sight of Hermione and his Harry. His foolish heart had stirred where it lay in his chest, determined to fling itself out once more to protect and love.

The two of them, each in their own ways, reminded him of his friends. Hermione, outspoken and loyal like Lily but quiet and studious like Remus. Harry, who flew like James but loved like Lily, with his bright, earnest green eyes.

Yes, they reminded him very much of them, though they were unique and deserving of loyalty on their own.

However, the wizard he was now was perhaps not the wizard he may have been, should things have turned out differently. Was he even capable of such loyalty any longer? What did loyalty even look like? How did he weigh loyalty to the present against his duty to right the wrongs of the past? For even though James and Lily were dead, he was still foolishly, hopelessly loyal to them.

It was a fine line he walked, trying to balance those two, if he was even managing at all. If he fought for the past, he gave up some of the present; if he protected the present, he lost the past.

Some days he wondered at the wizard he was becoming. There were days where he felt Magellan Quickfoot, with his sly machinations and questionable morals, was becoming entwined with his true self, Sirius Black. Those golden morals he had stuck so strongly to had ultimately never done him any good, anyways. His new compatriots' companionship and the delicious allure of the Dark made it easy to sink into Magellan, made him want to _stay_ Magellan and let the old vestiges of Sirius, broken, discarded and left to rot, fade away.

Day by day, they melded ever more together.

Moment by moment, he forgot why that might be bad.

The only thing truly anchoring Sirius to himself was Hermione's presence and the hope that he could have Harry. She had believed in his goodness and his innocence so strongly that she reminded him of his reasons for his revenge. It wasn't because he desired Pettigrew to die by his wand (though he did): it was because he desired to see the wizard who killed and betrayed those he loved brought to justice.

Sometimes, however, he wondered if it was enough. His goals were paramount above all: Kill Peter, and gain custody of Harry.

He wasn't afraid to achieve those through any means.

And if doing whatever he had to included a few—okay, perhaps more than a few—illegal things, like the regular use of the Dark Arts, and the procurement of illegal Dark objects, and perhaps the occasional torturing of unsuspecting people, then so be it.

He smirked. Whatever would dear cousin Bella think of him now that he practiced the things he had mostly eschewed? She'd likely give him a tight squeeze and that slightly lopsided, vaguely deranged smile she had been growing into the last time she saw him.

Of course, now that she'd been in Azkaban like him, who knew what she'd be like? If the way he'd been twisted into something resembling only a former shadow of himself was any indication, she'd likely gone right around the bend.

On that thought, he summoned his evening waist jacket and slipped it on as he made his way down the stairs. After all, one had to look their best before tangling with the likes of Avery and Mulciber, who had been merrily traipsing around as free wizards despite being sworn into Voldemort's ranks so many years ago. Their civilized facades, just like his, were mere window dressing to hide the truth lurking underneath.

It was strange how he felt like he belonged with them now, but it felt good in a way. After he had proven he was a changed wizard—no longer one of Dumbledore's little henchman—by first buying his way in with Eurydice's Lullaby (along with a few other artefacts) and then later doing some casual bonding over 'playing' with muggles, they had accepted him fairly readily. It had likely helped that he had such...connections that could be used once Their Lord had returned to power.

Naturally, he didn't particularly subscribe to the Dark Lord's propaganda, but if pretending to pay lip service to it got him closer to Pettigrew, who had somehow become a star in the ranks, then he would do it.

This included hosting Mulciber and Avery for a casual evening before they headed out for some 'entertainment', and he found himself rather enjoying their company as they discussed some new spells they had been looking into as they steadily made their way through a bottle of firewhiskey. Of course, the way those spells were applied could be a bit gruesome, but at least he had his drink and a hardy stomach.

"You know, Black," Avery said suddenly during a lull in the conversation, "I sometimes wonder about you. You're such a good chameleon, running around in polite society as Magellan Quickfoot. How should we know you're not skulking around in various disguises doing as you pleased? You could sneak up on us and kill us whenever you liked, and we would never know it was you. Who knows how many disguises you have?"

Sirius titled his head and smirked. It seemed Avery had at least cottoned on that he should be concerned.

"Someone seems a bit paranoid," he drawled. "I have only the one. Don't fool yourself into thinking I have the time to 'sneak up on you'. I have far better things to do, such as spend time with my fair Svetlana, who is always eager for my...company, or hunting down Pettigrew."

Quiet thus far, Mulciber shifted. "We don't know where Pettigrew is."

Blandly, Sirius replied, "I think you're lying." He sat forward. "Honestly, gentleman, let's put the posturing behind us. The Dark Lord currently favours Pettigrew, which is all well and good for him. I know as well as you do that if you want to rise through the ranks, sometimes you have to...hm, get rid of the competition. I want to progress just as you do, and if my motivation to take him out is partially based on past history, then so be it."

Avery still looked unconvinced. "There's just something...off about you, Black. You show up as Quickfoot but then tell us you're Black. You tell us you want Pettigrew out of the way—as we all do—so you can take his place at our Lord's side, but you also want him dead. I'm not quite sure I believe your motivations for joining us. Is it to join or our Lord in truth, or simply to get rid of Pettigrew?"

"Does it really matter, gentleman?" He barely refrained from rolling his eyes. "I've been wronged by Dumbledore and his ilk." Had he ever. "If I want to stick it to them, get some power, and have a little fun like we've been having these past few weeks then why can't I join up? Speaking of the cursing and hexing—I must say, I've seen much worse in Azkaban. It's getting a bit boring, to be honest."

The ghost of a shiver ran down his spine as he recalled how the guards could do as they wished to the damned. But casting upon someone had been rather different than being the one cast upon. It had made something inside him mend itself. It had made him feel powerful. And he should be ashamed of that feeling, shouldn't he?

"Regardless," he continued on, "I would think our little bonding activities showed that I'm as depraved as you, or what have you. Now that we've engaged in illegal activities in front of each other, I would think we're bosom buddies."

Mulciber surged to his feet, wand out. "Now look here—"

"—And because of that," he continued over the wizard, knowing this would get their attention as nothing else would, "I feel inclined to tell you this: I can give you Harry Potter. Furthermore, I can give you his best friend, Miss Granger."

That stopped the man in his tracks, and Mulciber stared mutely at him while Avery downed his glass in one shot.

"Ah, got your attention, did I?" He smirked.

"How could you possibly get Harry Potter? The boy thinks you're trying to kill him!" This from Avery, who had set his glass and come towards him, a gleam in his eye.

"That's what everyone wants you to think," he corrected. "There was an incident in the Shrieking Shack, you see, where it was all made clear who had done what and when. The boy thinks I'm innocent. Which I am, of course, but that's irrelevant to this."

He shrugged off thirteen years of captivity as if were inconsequential. "Potter knows of my innocence. And he's hungry for affection and love. I am his godfather. He trusts me and believes in me. I can manipulate him to do anyth—"

The floo lit, and Hermione's familiar form came through, her French braid and burgundy robes still neat after a long day. Looking down at her robes as she dusted them off, she said, "Evening, Sirius. I thought I heard your...voice." Her own voice died as she took in the tableau in front of her. "Sirius," she said somewhat faintly, "Why are you…. _you_ , in front of these men?" Growing alarmed, she pulled her wand. "Are you hurt? Are they threatening you?"

He took a moment to look both of the wizards in the eyes. She had made his point for him, almost, with her protectiveness and alarm. "No, no." He waved off her concern. "It's perfectly fine. These are simply my associates. We've come to an agreement on how they can help me find Pettigrew."

She brightened, then grew suspicious a bare instant later. "Have you? And they won't injure you again, will they?"

Triumph leapt within him. She couldn't be saying things better if he had scripted the encounter himself. "No, kitten. Don't worry."

Avery stepped forward and took her hand, leaning over it and placing a kiss on her hand in the traditional Pureblood greeting. "I promise we have no ill intent towards him," he swore. "We, too, think Pettigrew should be punished."

His tone was sincere, though Sirius couldn't determine the veracity of his words. When they had been _Crucioing_ that girl on Tuesday, he had remarked offhandedly that he hoped to do something similar to Pettigrew one day. Privately, Sirius wasn't sure his definition of 'punished' would match up with Hermione's, but that was splitting hairs.

Hermione remained unconvinced, her brilliant mind no doubt working feverishly as it always did and examining things from all angles. "If you're sure about them…" she replied dubiously, glancing at Sirius as she withdrew her hand from Avery's grasp and stepping back.

"I'm sure," he told her, trying to sound reassuring. "I know how you are after a long day, kitten, so why don't you run on upstairs and take a load off?"

Her gaze sharpened and her shoulders set, letting him know she wasn't pleased with his attempt to manage her. Really, their relationship had grown strained enough he sometimes wondered if she would keep cooperating as he asked. If ever a time came that she wouldn't during a critical moment where he truly needed her to, it would be truly problematic.

But despite their frayed relationship, this time she still obeyed and went up the stairs. Moments later, her door slammed shut with a rather angry thud.

"Like I said," he drawled as he swirled his whiskey and looked them dead in the eyes, "I can get you what—and who—you want. I'm here, gentleman. Let us work together to achieve our goals."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of Fitzwilliam Darcy — "In vain I have struggled". I first wrote this chapter in March and have been working on it ever since. It has been excruciating and horrible and I will never be satisfied with it, I think. I am honestly glad to get it out so I can stop agonizing over it, because it has been a thorn in my side for literally months. Happy birthday to me indeed for getting this out. 
> 
> Anyways, things are going to start getting very interesting around here now that we're in the twenties...


	23. Chapter Twenty

As seemed typical, time flew faster than Viktor could keep track of. As soon as he had won the quarterfinals against the Australians, he turned around and buckled down to prepare for the Festival of Blessings, which was perhaps an even bigger test than the Quidditch World Cup. Preparation for it had been underway for months by now, but as the day rapidly approached, he wanted to go over everything once more and ensure that it was as good as it was going to be.

A lot rode on the success of the invocation, or Blessing as the locals put it, that the festival was built around. As the second son, who was steward of the Krum lands, Viktor was responsible for not only creating the invocation but also casting it.

That responsibility weighed heavily on him. Invocations were tricky things to begin with, but an invocation that was malleable and changed year-by-year depending on the needs that Viktor or his family identified was another beast altogether.

Earlier in the spring, Viktor had spent a considerable amount of time corresponding and working with runic experts, weather wizards, and other experts from around the world to try and craft the best invocation that he could. The resulting conglomeration of spells, runes, and wand work was complex, to put it lightly. Luckily, he had Nevena, one of the family's most trusted retainers and a witch who had been helping oversee the invocation for many decades, on his side.

Without her, Viktor most certainly would not have been able to see his first invocation through with any amount of confidence. In fact, even with her assistance, he was incredibly nervous because of what was riding on this particular invocation. Because last year's invocation had had such a disastrous result after failing, this invocation was critical to ensuring the continued success of the Krum lands and the livelihoods of those who depended upon it.

This had long loomed over him while he had been preparing for the Quidditch World Cup and completing his studies at Durmstrang. Out of all of the things that he was juggling, this, in truth, was the most important to him because of how high the stakes were. If he lost a Quidditch match, people would be disappointed. If he failed an exam, it reflected poorly on him.

If he failed with the invocation and the land wasn't revitalized, the people could ultimately starve if they weren't able to earn their livelihoods off of it.

This year had been terribly lean already for a lot of them, and he couldn't bear to know he had contributed to those pinched looks and the quiet air of burgeoning desperation.

Visiting _Maika_ always gave him a sense of safety, and so it was to her that he fled the day before the Blessing took place. She took one look at his face, called for some refreshments, and installed him in the gazebo overlooking the Abraxan fields on one side and the forest in the other.

As usual, she knew what he needed and sat by him quietly, bringing her own set of correspondence to work on. Slowly, he was able to relax in increments, her presence and the fresh air doing him good.

"You know," his mother announced some time later while Viktor was looking over the invocation one more time, "I've invited Mia to the festival tomorrow."

Shock ran down his spine and he straightened, facing her. "You what?"

Patiently, _Maika_ repeated, "I invited Mia to the festival. I think it will be good cultural education for her. She'll get to see a Pureblood rite and tradition up close, and she will be able to see more of your duties."

He mightily resisted the urge to say something rather crass. "I don't particularly see why she needs to attend _this_ festival," he responded, sounding a little strained. The first festival he had a large hand in organizing. The first festival where he would say the invocation. The first festival that he truly had any ownership over.

To say he was a little anxious was a bit of an understatement, and having Hermione there would make him feel even more so. He would want everything to be perfect if she was coming. It would be beyond embarrassing for something to go awry while she was there.

"Vitya, don't be silly. This is the _only_ festival she can come to. She won't be here for the next holiday." She stood up and kissed his cheek. "It will be fine, darling boy. Don't worry so."

"Easy for you to say," he murmured under his breath as she left. Absently, he rested his hands on the table as he scanned the invocation again and repeated, "Easy for you to say."

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, the pale blue of the sky dotted with ribbons of thin, white clouds. Viktor was up with the sun, his night plagued by restlessness and bad dreams. Contemplatively, he stood on the porch and watched the sun's rays reach the trees, their golden touch gentle. It was the day of the Festival of Blessings, and he prayed his work would spread across the land as the sun did, bringing light and bounty with it.

Carefully, he put his summer formalwear on, the material light but stiff. The vest and robe were a forest green, a nod to the festival, but he rather liked them as they brought out a hint of hazel to his normally dark eyes.

Mippy watched over him as he choked down his breakfast, her eyes glinting militantly as she ensured he ate every bite, and then he was off to the Manor, where he knew his mother was waiting on him.

"Vitya," she strode forward to kiss his cheek, the thin fabric of her summer robes flowing elegantly around her so much like water, "stop looking so worried. It will be fine. Nevena has already been to the site and prepared it all. Now, come say hello to Mia. Don't be rude."

His mother stepped aside and revealed Hermione, who was looking shy and pretty in a set of honey-coloured robes and a dress of soft, pale blue. "Hello, Viktor." Her eyes were warm.

Almost without thought, he strode forward and stopped before her, clicking his heels and bowing over her hand. "Mia." He looked up at her. "Thank you for coming."

"Thank you for having me," she replied quietly. "I know that this is a family event and that you've been a little nervous, so I appreciate you letting me come."

At the look on his face, she squeezed his hand. "I've seen you revising the incantation at lunch," she confided. "Stop worrying. Your face will get stuck like that."

The sheer ridiculousness of her statement struck him and he chuckled, shaking his head as he straightened up. "It will get stuck like that?" he repeated. "Where do you even come up with these things?"

Hermione grinned impishly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "My mother used to say that to me when I frowned. She was worried about me getting lines on my face."

He frowned himself. "You're too young to worry about getting lines. And besides, who cares if you do? It's a sign of a life well lived."

Wryly, Hermione responded, "My mother has a different opinion than you. Regardless, stop looking like you're going to miss the snitch. You'll be fine. Don't be silly."

Her faith carelessly bestowed on him, Hermione walked past him and linked arms with his mother, who was looking at him with a gleam in her eye. "Yes, Vitya, don't be silly." And with that, they apparated away.

He let out a long breath and looked at the sky, hoping that she was right. The invocation was the linchpin to the festival. Without its correct casting and the correct combination of runes inlaid in the circle he stood in, he could do more harm to the land and its people than good.

Another deep breath in and a long exhale out and he apparated after them, landing in one of the designated apparition points in the middle of town. Milena and Hermione were nowhere to be seen, and he wondered which of the stores _Maika_ had dragged Hermione off to. Knowing her, it would be the leather shop. She had a penchant for purchasing large quantities of leather boots and bags from Bargov, who was always almost deliriously happy to see her.

"Viktor." Nevena's familiar no-nonsense voice sounded behind him. "The preparations are complete. I know you came yesterday—the wards told me—but knowing you, you want to look at the circle again."

"You know me too well," he said wryly as he looked into familiar blue eyes. The witch in front of him was impeccably dressed as always, her silvered hair caught up in a neat chignon. However, it was no less than he expected of her. Nevena never had a hair out of place.

Mere minutes later they were in a large dirt circle surrounded by grass right outside of town. Critically, he looked at the lines dug in the dirt and the rune inscribed with water, which had been frozen with a stasis charm. Alternating runes hung in the air at each of the cardinal points, the thin lines of fire flickering in the wind.

Experimentally he sent his magic out of himself in a careful push. It rushed up against the circle before climbing higher, as if coming up against a wall. He nodded at the results, pleased with what he saw. "Excellent work as always. And just to double check one last thing—you think the _berkana_ rune will be bolstered by the countercasting as I say the invocation?"

She nodded at once. "Piñeda assured me it would. I truly think the combination you've come up with will do a lot to negate the runic combination of last year. In fact, I would not be surprised to see a regular harvest this year. Your magic is strong, as is your determination. That does a lot."

He tucked a hand into his pocket and ran the other through his hair. "I hope so. If not for the land's sake, then for the people." He could not bear the idea of more quiet suffering.

They took the road leading back into town, and while the distance was short, the trip was not. The entire town was up and out in full force, colorful robes and bright smiles apparent everywhere. A band was already warming up somewhere, the light sounds of a flute playing through the air, and the notes were a pleasant backdrop to the sounds of witches and wizards as they came up to speak with him.

It was only as he was in the midst of a rather spirited discussion with Luca and Iona over proper sun protectant charms that his mother and Hermione rejoined him, their eyes bright and smiles ready.

"Finding everything okay?" he asked.

Hermione's nod was immediate. "This reminds me a lot of Hogsmeade," she told him enthusiastically, "except it's loads better, really. Hogsmeade is a town by Hogwarts," she explained to everyone. "I was just allowed to go last year, but I feel like I won't ever think it half as wonderful as Belnik. You have magical glassblowing, and leather making, _and_ a rare bookshop."

"Two, actually," Iona input, and Hermione's eyes glowed even brighter.

"Really?"

Iona nodded in confirmation, and Hermione's excitement seemed to almost overcome her. "Can I go see it? Please?"

Milena laughed good naturedly. "Yes, of course. Vitya, why don't you take her? You still have a few minutes before the rite, and I fear for her health if she isn't allowed to go."

"Wouldn't you like to come with us?" He offered.

She shook her head. "I am fairly certain I saw Cristin over there. He promised me some elf wine the last time I came, and I am determined to get some."

With a sidelong look at Iona and Luca, who inclined their heads in a promise to keep an eye on the beloved Krum matriarch, he held his arm out to Hermione and asked, "Shall we?"

"Oh yes. We most _definitely_ shall."

Taking his arm, they departed the small group, and he overheard Iona say, "What a charming girl. Has the betrothal contract already been signed?"

He stumbled at her words, catching himself and waving off Hermione's concerned look.

But… a _betrothal contract_? Is that what they thought she was? His...his _lyubim_? His beloved?

A sidelong look at the girl next to him revealed she remained totally oblivious to the comment, her gaze trained on the buildings surrounding them as they walked on the brick street. Relieved, he was able to return to the spinning thoughts of his mind.

Hermione, as his? Surely he appreciated her company—treasured it, even—but he hadn't considered her as more than a friend.

And yet, somehow, the thought wasn't exactly repugnant.

"I can't believe there's _another_ bookstore here," Hermione suddenly gushed, her hand squeezing his arm. "Honestly, I can't believe my luck." Her eyes had a distinctly starry look in them.

No, he thought as he looked into her bright eyes, it wasn't repugnant at all. In fact, it was intriguing.

Appealing, even.

"What?" she asked a moment later as he stared a moment too long. "Is there something on my face?" Her hand touched a cheek self-consciously.

He shook his head. "Nothing." He cleared his throat. "Nothing at all. I'm just...amazed at how much you love books."

Her bright laugh pealed around them. "How could that still surprise you? You know me, Viktor."

Yes, yes he did.

And it seemed, he found himself thinking with burgeoning surprise and not a little anxiety, he very much liked what he knew.

At the realization, his chest grew tight and he pushed those thoughts— _all_ those thoughts—out of his mind. He couldn't handle something like that right now. Those...feelings, whatever they were, whatever they heralded, had to wait.

Instead, he let Hermione roam free around the store, flitting around from shelf to shelf with an avaricious look in her eyes as he mentally reviewed the invocation and it's wand movements. The stack of books in her arms became larger and larger until she was no longer comfortably able to cradle them all, at which point he took them from her with a sidelong look. She hardly noticed, her eyes too busy traveling over the spines of the books over ley lines.

When he placed them on the counter, the proprietor shook his head. "A woman after my own heart," he said. "Twelve books is quite the accomplishment."

Ruefully, Viktor replied, "I doubt it will be enough. She's rabid about them. Just put it on the family account, if you don't mind."

Hermione, who had come up behind him, interjected, "Viktor, you couldn't possibly—these are really very expensive—"

Holding up a hand, he forestalled her protestations. "I can, and I will. As thanks for being my friend, and for taking care of us and the team." He shot her a narrow-eyed look. "You wouldn't want to turn up your nose at our gratitude, would you?"

She opened her mouth and then closed it, clearly thinking better of saying whatever she had been planning to say. At last, she managed, "I very much appreciate the gift."

"Excellent response. You're welcome." Neatly, he resized the books and handed the miniatures to her so she could stick them in her pocket.

With a lightly pouting Hermione at his side, they twined their way back through the town's streets. Most people were streaming in the same direction as them, all eager to watch the invocation. As they cut a path through, many wished him luck, the hope in their eyes making his stomach churn.

He had to make sure this went right. He had to.

At some point after he inclined his head to yet another townsperson Hermione commented, "They seem very eager for this to go well. I can see why you would be stressed." Lightly, she touched his hand, her touch reassuring.

"The Blessing last year did not have the benefits we had wished for," he explained. "Every year we change the runes to try and magnify the effects we wish to get. For example, one year we wanted to focus on drawing more rain to the fields because the year before was dry and the year to come was forecast the same. Last year, the circle was broken in the middle of casting because it wasn't cast strongly enough, which caused a backlash. The fields weren't as bountiful as usual, and people have had a hard time as a result."

The family business, faced with a lack of ingredients, had also suffered as a result. That didn't matter to him. The family would be fine for the rest of his lifetime and far beyond even if they didn't work another day. It was the people that he was worried for. Their livelihoods were directly impacted by the Blessing the Krums set forth each year.

"So they're hoping to restore the balance through this year's Blessing invocation?"

He stared straight ahead, the circle looming in front of him as they approached it. "And hopefully beyond."

"You know," she said suddenly, "do you remember when you told me about wanting to become a Weather Wizard? We talked later about how hard it was to get an apprenticeship. Oh, actually," she added as something occurred to her, "Speaking of that, I think you should send an owl to Professor Flitwick at school. I think you might be able to work with him outside of classes in the fall if you want."

She paused, visibly changed her mental track, and said, "Anyways, I remember thinking how admirable your goal was when you told me about your goal because it wasn't just for you. It was for something bigger than you. I know that your sense of responsibility makes this incredibly stressful because you care so much, but Viktor, really—you're totally capable of excelling in stressful situations like this.

"Think about it: Quidditch is a time sensitive event where you have to catch a variably flying object before someone else. If you can succeed there, why can't you succeed here? Furthermore— _furthermore,_ " she grew more enthusiastic as another idea came to her, "You are top of your class at Durmstrang in all of the classes you need to succeed doing the ritual today."

"Already you have had success after success. Seriously, you need to be confident in your abilities and confident in your purpose. You are, out of everyone else, uniquely capable to handle this because you have both the skill, purpose, and drive to pull it off." Lightly, she nudged him with her shoulder and smiled up at him encouragingly. "Knock off the worrying, okay?"'

His heart felt too full in that moment, the realization that had begun in the bookshop blooming within him and bringing a strange warmth and steadiness with it. His pace slowed until he stopped short, his hand gently circling her wrist to pull her around to face him even as people continued to flow around them.

"Mia," he said, feeling the weight of her name on his tongue and the softness of her skin in his grip, "I was worried this morning about you coming because I wanted...well. It's no matter. But I see now that I was wrong to worry. You always rise above my expectations. You always encourage me to see things in ways I haven't seen before. I am grateful that you're here, because you have somehow managed to make an event I have been dreading and anticipating in equal parts for months something manageable and tangible."

At his earnest words, she bit her lip, lowering her eyes for a moment before raising them again. "Everything you need to do, you have inside of you already." Her hand lightly rested on his heart for a moment before she dropped it. "I just had to frame it a different way."

For the first time in several days Viktor felt his brows smooth out and the knot of worry inside him released just a little. "You are wise beyond your years."

"No," she corrected him, "I just know you well. And I read a lot of books, one of which may have been on psychology."

"Psychology?" He asked, his interest piqued as he threaded her arm around his and resumed their journey to the ritual circle.

They spent the rest of the short walk to the circle discussing the muggle topic, which he found so interesting that he asked Hermione for the book she mentioned she had read. Happily, she agreed to lend it and a few others to him, and she even recommended one or two others.

Both his mother and Nevena were waiting for him at the circle, and Milena motioned for Hermione to come stand by her. _Maika_ stepped forward and kissed him on his brow, brushing an errant piece of hair off his forehead before retaking her place next to Hermione.

"Just do as we've planned," Nevena, ever the dutiful mentor, told him as he shrugged off his robe and handed it to her. He nodded, took a breath, and stepped into the circle, facing the crowd of people that spanned as far as the eye could see standing in a circle around him.

Just another group of spectators, he consoled himself. Just like Hermione had said, it was just another stadium in which he needed to perform.

The crowd quieted until he could hear his pulse thundering in his ears. Raising his hands to his side and bringing them slowly together in front of him, he intoned, "The circle is closed. May the goddess Lada bless this circle and the ritual that I am about to commence."

Abruptly, he broke apart his palms, channeling his magic through them to create a connection. Bright, pure light arced between them, and he called, "Earth! I summon you to work with my will." He slammed his palms towards the ground and his magic flowed down and out until it hit the barrier of ice, which sizzled with heat as it evaporated. The thin metal ring around it held, though, and as steam flowed in a hot cloud upwards, the metal began to glow.

His magic began to create a pillar around him as it hit the metal, and he continued, "Water, I ask you to bless this land upon which we work. May you rain down upon us and bless us with the liquid of life."

The steam began to swirl, rotating around him and rising. "Air!" He stomped a foot against the ground and threw his hands up above his head. "I beseech you, bring the seed of other land and lay your gentle hands on our skin."

The circle drew higher and higher, and the heat of the steam and his effort was making him sweat mightily, his breath coming faster as he strained to control the spell. The runes they had inscribed were glowing a bright blue, and he felt a spark of triumph. "Fire! I command you to work with us to bring new life to the land where it is needed. May the old burn to bring vitality to the new, while the new remains untouched and pure."

He turned slowly and used his wand to cast the runes from the ground to the air, their bright color untainted and vibrant against the blue sky. His muscles strained as he felt the magic of the land rush up through his feet. The heat was bearing down upon him, the air was heavy with magic, and the steam from earlier had condensed into a cloud that enveloped him.

Combined, the magical elements of the Krum land were heady, a direct connection to ancestors' past and to the very essence of the world around him. That being said, his body could not contain the sheer amount of magic channeling through him for long, and he risked losing control of the invocation if he drew this out for too much longer. The resulting backlash could negate everything he was working for.

" _Ingwuz, berkana, eihwaz,_ and _jera_ , I bind these four runes to the land for a year and a day. May we be protected against negative influences; may the land be fruitful and grow ever more plentiful; and may mother earth and father sun work in harmony to help us attain our goals." He drew his hands down and knelt, his face bowed. "I, Viktor Krum, second son of the scion of the Krums who guard this land, do so ask for peace, prosperity, and plenty."

"Peace, prosperity, and plenty!" The resounding echo roared around him from everyone gathered. Beams of light shot towards him as witches and wizards cast at the circle, and he roared as he sought to ground the magic and imbue the land with it. Struggling, he wrestled with the wave but at last subdued it, the tidal wave ebbing to a flow, then a trickle.

Breathing heavily, he placed his hands against the ground, his entire body shaking with magical, physical, and mental exhaustion. "I bless this land; I bless these people. The circle remains unbroken. May the goddess Lada bless this ritual that I have completed in the name of those I protect and support."

With that, the ritual was finished, and the crowd roared with pleasure as he struggled to his feet. All around him, the people—his people—celebrated with each other at the successful finish of the ritual that would most likely herald the return to peace and prosperity.

As soon as he breached the circle, Milena, Nevena, Demetrius, and Hermione surrounded him. "Merlin, Viktor," Hermione breathed. "That was….you do this _every_ year?"

"It will get easier as he grows into his magic," Milena assured the younger witch. "There is a reason why we didn't let him try until this year." Assessing her son, she added, a bit concerned, "It may have been too soon yet, I think."

Demetrius had cast a vitals spell on him the moment he had stepped out, and Hermione was looking at the results as well, her brow creased. "Just a bit of magical exhaustion, it seems," she said at last.

Canceling the spell, Demetrius nodded in agreement. "Nothing that a few revitalizing potions and some good, solid rest over the next week or two won't cure." He squeezed Viktor's shoulder. "That was truly something to witness. I don't think I've seen such a powerful Blessing since your great-uncle last cast."

Casually, Demetrius walked next to Viktor, letting the younger wizard rest his weight against him while Hermione came up beside him and slung his arm over her shoulder. To all the onlookers it would look like he was cuddling Hermione, when in reality she was helping him walk to the apparition point so they could get home. It was a point of pride to maintain a strong front, no matter that he had just exhausted himself for the people and town around him.

However, it was that pose that hit the news the next day, bringing its own headache with it. He stared down at the damning photo of them moving together fluidly, Viktor's head bent forward while apparently listening intently to whatever she was saying. Little did anyone know, she was telling him that they had a mere hundred metres to go before they were at the apparition point and Demetrius could 'tuck him into bed'.

Islov certainly didn't seem to care about details like that as he and Viktor sat in his office, a room that Viktor tried to avoid. The room meant trouble, and if Islov's expression as he read the article out loud indicated anything, Viktor was fair to middling up to his neck in it.

_**A NEW SNITCH IN TOWN?** _

_Eat your hearts out, fellow witches: Viktor Krum may finally be off the market! The Seeker, who is currently playing on the Bulgarian National Team in the Quidditch World Cup (for the most up-to-date results and predictions, see p. 26-9), is notorious for his dedication to the sport, preferring to spend his free time practicing rather than going out on the town like some of his teammates. However, the reclusive player, who, at 17, is the youngest Seeker ever to play professionally, has been recently spotted out and about several times with one witch, Miss Hermione Granger, at the Square and during the Krum's annual Blessings of the Elements festival, which took place a few days ago._

_Miss Granger, 13, who is a British national, has been apprenticing with the team's primary Healer, the acclaimed Krasmira Lazarov, since the start of the summer. Sources close to the matter say that she and Krum are seen together more often than not. "These days it's rare to see him without her unless he's on the pitch," one source confided._

_While this may bode well for Mr Krum, one does wonder: how will this affect his playing? Will she be the wind beneath his broom or will she be a distraction he can't afford?_

Islov threw the paper down on the table, the image of Hermione smiling up at Viktor playing on repeat from the front page. There was an extended silence as he regarded Viktor, until Viktor at last felt compelled to speak. "Coach, I—"

Islov held up a hand as he pinched the bridge of his nose with the other. "I don't care," he told him, "if it's real or not. It doesn't matter one whit to me. What matters is if this—whatever _this_ is—" he motioned at the newspaper, "—is going to affect your playing."

"I understand," Viktor said immediately, "but Hermione and I aren't in a relationship. A romantic one," he amended a moment later. "We're friends, but that's it."

And if that statement made something in his stomach curdle, that was for him to consider later, along with all of the other uncomfortable feelings he had boxed away since his perception had been shaken by that stray comment.

_Have they signed the betrothal contract yet?_

"I'm glad to hear that, but that's no longer the only issue," Islov replied. "Now there's the press. I know that you're accustomed to attention, but is _she_? Does she know how to avoid it?" He sighed again. "I'll have Krasmira talk to her."

"I'll talk to her as well," Viktor promised. He wouldn't let her face this alone. It was his fault, too. If he had just been normal—if he didn't have such responsibilities, if he wasn't famous for doing what he loved and being who he was—nothing like this would have happened.

"If I do see that your playing is affected," he warned, "we'll have to revisit the issue. I believe that she's good for you, Viktor, truly, but Quidditch comes first, and if she, or this damned media circus, touches your playing, then we'll have to find a more permanent solution."

The implication was clear: Hermione was expendable. Viktor wasn't. Both he and Islov knew it.

Viktor leaned forward, eyes blazing. "You wouldn't."

Islov gave a small shrug. "If I had to."

"I won't let you."

"You think you can stop me, boy?" Islov arched a brow and leaned back in his chair. "Get out of here before you say anything else idiotic, Vitya. You're trying my patience."

He looked at the man who had been more of a father to him in the past two years than his biological one, his hands fisting at his sides, and turned on his heel so sharply he felt his boot cut the wood beneath it.

He knew that Quidditch came with baggage, and normally he accepted it because it was so integral to him. The fame, the pressure, the time it took away from his friends, his family, his studies.

But this...that he could be indirectly responsible for someone's dream getting taken away just because they were friends? This, he was finding hard to swallow.

Viktor's dreams weren't worth more or somehow better than Hermione's, and he vowed then that he would do all he could to help her achieve hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)))))) 
> 
> Thanks for all your reviews last chapter! I really was blown away by your response to the interlude and am still trying to catch up to them. They're coming, I promise. 
> 
> Shout out in particular to DopeytheDwarf for telling me chapter twelve and thirteen somehow got switched on here. How that happened...I don't know. Did I fix it? Hopefully????? -.-
> 
> Mea Culpa: Even though I read these chapters over routinely and edit them and then compulsively rewrite large swathes of them to include new details as I write ahead, I keep finding some grammatical errors a month or a few weeks after posting. Sorry about that - when we finish the summer arc I'll try and go back and catch them all. As one AO3 tag puts it: No beta, we die like men. *shrug*


	24. Chapter Twenty-One

The morning of the conference came around sooner than Hermione anticipated. Her attention had been rather diverted the past few days by the article published in the Bulgarian equivalent to the _Daily Prophet_ , which had subsequently been picked up by several major international outlets. It seemed anyone and everyone was interested in Viktor Krum's personal life, given that any developments could have an outsized effect on his performance during the Cup.

Of course, she had been initially upset by the implication that she could be negatively impacting him, but he had assured her that that was not the case—rather the opposite. Still, she promised herself that she would make doubly sure to try and be as supportive as she could.

Her new notoriety brought with it the unpleasant side effect of side-long glances when she was out and about, along with a sudden influx of mail. A lot of it was unpleasant, and when she mentioned it to Mistress Lazarov, the dark haired witch had told her that it would be taken care of. A few days later, someone the team employed for issues like this had come by and instituted a mail ward, and she hadn't seen any letters since.

With that rather… interesting development, she felt it only natural that the conference had crept up on her. Honestly, even without all of the ruckus that the article had caused, it likely would've crept up on her regardless simply because there was so much going on. She was still studying and learning and _doing_ so much more than she ever thought she could while the team was training harder than ever for the semifinals. That, coupled with the Festival of Blessings, the imminent Ball (gulp), and the...whatever with Sirius meant Hermione's days were one long blur.

Truthfully, the conference had snuck up on her, but when Madam Lazarov brought it up at the beginning of the week and Hermione asked about preparation, her mentor said none was needed on her end.

While that relieved her of work to be done, it failed to provide an outlet for the butterflies making themselves at home in her tummy. She took extra care with the professional robes that she and Clara had purchased earlier, making sure there wasn't a wrinkle in sight before she donned them. The sage green robes complemented her hair while the tan, tea length dress made her feel capable of facing anything she encountered head on.

An unfamiliar owl tapped at the kitchen window as she was eating breakfast, and she opened the latch and let it in. Quickly, she took the letter and fed it a bit of toast. Instead of waiting for her to read the letter, it flew off, tawny wings shining in the soft morning light.

Curiously, she examined the off-white parchment. The script on the front looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite place where she knew it from.

_My Dear Miss Granger,_

_It is so nice to hear from you. I hope you are having a pleasurable summer with Madam Lazarov? I have heard she can be somewhat stern at times, but Madam Pomfrey assures me she is well intentioned._

_As for the letter you sent me, I hope to reassure you that all is well. While I can understand your hesitations and concerns, everything our mutual friend is doing is well within the bounds of what he and I have discussed. If you can continue to place your trust in me, my dear, I promise that I will not lead you wrong. Rest assured, our friend is making good progress using the tactics he has implemented, and I trust you not to stymie his efforts._

_If, of course, you feel as though something else has occurred, do feel free to owl me again. My door, or in this case, my window, is always open to you._

_AD_

She finished reading the letter with a rising sense of disappointment. The only other person who was truly informed about what was going on seemed to think everything was going apace, but he wasn't here and she was. Surely Sirius's strange activities and increasingly abnormal behaviours indicated something was amiss?

But she had asked the only other person she could, and he had just discounted it in the letter, so perhaps it wasn't strange at all and she was merely imagining things? Perhaps she was seeing things that weren't there at all?

She bit her lip, unsure, and scanned the letter again. Her eyes snagged on the signature at the end, and she remembered in a flash of insight the letter addressed to Sirius she had found some time earlier about the strange music box Sirius had received and that she hadn't seen hide nor hair of since. Whatever had Dumbledore sent it to Sirius for, and why would neither of them talk to her directly and instead choose to talk _around_ her?

She sighed in frustration, folding the letter back up before carefully casting an _Incendio_ on it. There was no way Sirius could accidentally find it the way she had found his own letter if it no longer existed, after all.

The wizard in question was nowhere in sight, as was becoming typical—she wasn't even sure if he had returned the night before, in all honesty—so she left for the stadium without even telling him she was leaving the country for the day. Madam Lazarov had reassured her that she would be fine without telling him, and she trusted her.

"Ready to go?" the Healer asked her as soon as she stepped through the private floo in her office. She was busily gathering papers into a neat pile, and bound them together with a wave before shrinking them.

A moment later she slipped her hand into a pocket of her pale green robes (a colour that Hermione had never expected to see around the Healer, let alone see her wearing them), and drew out a flat metal disc. "Place your hand on this," she instructed, "and we'll be off in about...two minutes."

Hermione nodded, trying not to let her nerves show on her face. She must not have done a very good job because her mentor encouraged her, "It will be fine. You'll fit right in, I believe."

She nodded again, thinking for a moment about how far her relationship with Mistress Lazarov had come in so short a time for her to be encouraging her. For someone who had initially thought Hermione had been essentially a waste of time, the Healer was fairly spouting what equated to effusive praise. Feeling bolstered by the thought, she squared her shoulders just in time for the long, nasty portkey to Italy.

As she had when she initially portkeyed to Bulgaria at the start of the summer, Hermione stumbled and fell to her knees upon arriving. "I have got to work on that," she said ruefully, brushing off her robes and casting a quick _Scourgify_ on them to get rid of any dirt or dust.

Mistress Lazarov shrugged a shoulder. "It's a matter of practice. Now, come, let us be off. I don't want to miss the first panel."

After checking in, the morning was an absolute whirlwind of panel after seminar after panel. Even though Hermione was far too much of a novice to understand a lot of the potions seminars happening, she was learning an absolutely incredible amount just by sheer dint of listening. A lot of what was being discussed was extremely technical, and at times Mistress Lazarov would lean over and whisper explanations to her or make connections between what they were hearing and their own work back in Bulgaria.

It felt overwhelming, but it also felt _wonderful_. Her brain had never felt so full as it did now, and she craved the feeling already.

"Thank you so much for taking me with you," she gushed in between sessions. "This is incredible. Simply wonderful. Are we going to Xiaozhang's session later? I saw on the posted sessions that he was going to talk about healing point blank Dark curses, and I thought it would be most interesting."

Mistress Lazarov nodded in response. "Yes, I had that one marked down as well. Now, tell me what you think about…" she trailed off, her eyes widening slightly at seeing something behind her. "Severus? What a pleasant surprise." Her tone, acerbic as always, made Hermione question the veracity of the statement even as she turned around.

Her jaw dropped as Professor Snape— _Snape_ , of all people, greeted her Mistress politely by her first name before turning to lock his extremely piercing, dark eyes upon her. "Miss Granger."

"Professor Snape," she returned politely, though he had hardly ever been polite to her.

Truthfully, she wasn't sure if she was more shaken at the unexpected sight of him or at the fact he was dressed rather fashionably in a velvet green waistcoat and black cravat, his hair—which was longer than she'd ever seen it—tied into a neat, short queue at the nape of his neck. He looked rather...respectable, all things said.

Mistress Krasmira had not even lifted a brow at the interaction, and she merely began the conversation in her typical unflappable way. "Now that all the necessary pleasantries are over, I would like to tell you that you have positively squandered a most marvelous opportunity in Miss Granger here, Severus."

 _Severus? A marvelous opportunity?_ Hermione resisted the urge to goggle rather idiotically at the witch.

"Why," Madam Lazarov sniffed, "Miss Granger has been helping me brew quite difficult potions far beyond mere school book assignments almost since the first week. I simply fail to see why you would not have snapped her up for your own within the first year."

Hermione rather thought she knew, but none of the explanations were fit for polite society so she bit her tongue.

Professor Snape—no, she thought as she recalled her had gotten a Mastery, _Master_ Snape—barely spared a look at her. "She is passable, I will admit, but nothing truly prodigious."

Mistress Lazarov crossed her arms. "And you've got a stick shoved up your arse," she retorted haughtily. Next to her, Hermione choked. "The girl was brewing Polyjuice in the girl's lavatory in her second year! I would be hard pressed to find a better example of an innate potions talent than that, not to mention her critical analyses of the works she has read. Have you not been reading her assignments that you set her? Have you not witnessed the leaps of intuition yourself?"

Looking like he was having a rotten tooth extracted, Snape ground out, "She has talent."

Hermione wished she could record the encounter for the boys. The exchange happening in front of her almost defied belief.

"It is far more than that and you know it. We have embarked upon a study of the Dark Arts and possible remedies for injuries sustained by them, and Apprentice Granger has acquitted herself admirably thus far."

"Has she?" Snape drawled, eyes glittering. "As an apprentice, I would dare say she had indeed." He returned his attention to her, and she stood up straighter, the better to face whatever he was about to unleash upon her.

"Apprentice Granger, I must offer my most…sincere congratulations."

"Thank you, sir," Hermione replied quietly. Even if the sentiment wasn't quite sincere, it was still the nicest thing he had said—and likely would ever say—to her.

"It's all well and good that you're offering congratulations, useless as those might be," Mistress Lazarov dismissed, "but what I would like to know is how you plan on changing your pedagogical approach to her now that she has demonstrated superior skills and aptitude outside of the classroom."

The Professor's mouth curled into its typical sneer. "I do not see the need for any outside tutelage, as you seem so keen on obtaining for her."

"You are just as stubborn now as you were when we apprenticed together, Severus Snape," Madam Lazarov snapped irritably. At that, Hermione truly reeled, the conversation twisting and turning with so many surprises she stopped trying to predict the next thing that would be revealed.

Although it could explain their similarities in garb when they were working, which she had noticed when she first started with Mistress Lazarov. Perhaps their master had required it of them, and it had become habit?

"Do me a favor and stop the posturing." Mistress Lazarov shrugged off his bad temperament. "We both know how this will end up. I will be writing to Dumbledore myself and lodging a formal request so she continues her studies apace. Given how early she has started, I don't see any issue with her completing her training within her last year at Hogwarts, perhaps even earlier if we manage the timing carefully."

She sniffed as she casually rewrote Hermione's entire scholastic future for the remainder of her time at Hogwarts and continued, "I will owl you with my expectations of her additional potions assignments. She has, of course, essentially completed her fifth and sixth form requirements, not to speak of the fourth form, by working with me. Obviously, she should have been removed from the traditional Potions settings as soon as it was discovered that she had brewed the Polyjuice, but there is no time better than now to remove her and set her in an independent practicum or to place her with the seventh years this year."

Her piercing eyes narrowed as she told Master Snape, "I will be _frequently_ and _rigorously_ checking in on her to ensure she is being taught to the level she is at."

"Are you quite finished handing out additional work for me?" He inquired, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Mistress Lazarov bared her teeth in what Hermione could be pressed to say was a smile. "If you aren't interested in teaching some of the brightest minds in the wizarding world, Severus, then why are you teaching at all?"

Professor Snape's hand briefly skimmed over his wrist as if he had an itch. Hermione repressed a shiver as he answered silkily, "Why, indeed?"

"I really don't think this is necessary," she felt compelled to interject, bracing herself for what would doubtlessly be an ensuing cutting remark from her Hogwarts professor. "I've been doing all right on my own, and I would so hate to impose on Professor—er, Master Snape's—time."

Not to mention that the thought of spending any time with him on her own, however academically valuable, made her shiver with dread.

Regarding her with some surprise and disapproval, Mistress Lazarov asked, "You would turn down individualized tutelage at my recommendation?"

Hermione swallowed, licked her lips. "I don't mean to be disrespectful—"

"Then don't say another word, unless it's 'Thank you Mistress', or if you're asked. I am doing this for you, Hermione, not for me."

Feeling duly chastised, Hermione resisted the urge to rub her toe in the ground like a small child and instead nodded.

"I will, of course, send you an owl to discuss terms of payment or negotiation of labour." Mistress Lazarov returned to the conversation at hand and Hermione's head shot up in alarm. _Labour?_

"I do assume that the labour will go towards stocking the infirmary's inventory," she went on blithely.

Hermione wilted a bit in relief. Stocking the infirmary was something she could do.

Snape nodded brusquely. "That will be sufficient. I will at times require her assistance for brewing other things that I will decide at my discretion without your clumsy and high-handed meddling." His tone was positively acidic.

Mistress Lazarov sighed. "I had forgotten what a sharp tongue you have. Either that or I willfully pushed it out of my mind. I agree upon your terms, and I expect reports from both of you regarding your progress on the matter. Now, with that settled, I would in fact like to discuss with you the most recent article you published in _The Potioneer_."

And just like she hadn't chained Hermione to her least-liked professor and completely reordered her academic expectations, Mistress Lazarov embarked on a rather spirited (and at times impolite) discussion with Master Snape, who returned her tone with what seemed to be almost glee, if Snape was a gleeful sort of man.

Hermione could hardly follow the conversation, but she was able to hear the biting witticisms and tongue lashings quite well enough to know to bite her tongue. Shortly after they began eviscerating each other over their opinions on how to use knotweed cut during the full moon, another Master garbed in a rather revolting shade of yellow joined the conversation, which left Hermione to silently watch three Masters spar with each other.

Truly, her inability to participate didn't particularly matter to her since she felt full to bursting just being around people who were so invested in arguing about knowledge and techniques while citing works _during their discussions_ to back up their opinions. Content just to listen, she floated along with the tide of the conversation until the group broke up to attend the afternoon panels.

The conference finally wound up around six, leaving her exhausted but somehow buzzing with energy. Mistress Lazarov took one look at her and laughed, the sound surprisingly warm. "You remind me of myself after my first conference," she told her. "That look in your eyes...yes, it reminds me very much of myself."

"There's so much I don't know," Hermione breathed, "and I want to learn it all."

Still smiling, her mentor advised, "I would try and narrow your scope. After all, this was primarily a Potions conference, although there were some interesting Potions-based healing sessions as well. You can't know everything, Hermione, so I would advise you to carefully consider what you truly wish to apply yourself to."

Her voice turned shrewd. "Time-Turners cannot provide the long term solution for learning, as you well know, so you must do as us mortals do and be selective."

Hermione bit her lip. "I know," she responded. "I just wish I could…"

"But you can't. And you won't, or you shall suffer some very dire consequences indeed, from both me and from the Time-Turner itself. Now," she went on briskly, "we have yet to do our formal Master-Apprentice binding, and I would like to do so. We have discussed the finer points in the past, but to briefly review: you shall be my apprentice and agree to abide by my rules and standards regarding your training and learning until such point comes that I deem you truly proficient as a Healer.

"Throughout this time," the dark haired Healer continued, "I may direct you to others for formalized training in other topics or subjects I deem necessary, and I will require you to assist either me or them in recompense for their time. In addition to your studies, I may also require you to assist me in my research. This arrangement shall last no longer than three years, at which time we will revisit it. Does this still sound amenable to you?"

Amenable? It sounded wonderful. She was quick to agree, although she did ask, "And this shan't affect my time at Hogwarts? I can still go back?"

Madam Lazarov nodded at once. "You can, and you must. I will, as I mentioned to Severus, be altering some of your studies. I can't tell you more until I communicate with Headmaster Dumbledore and some of the other Professors, but I believe you will be taken out of some of your classes and given individual instruction since you are far advanced beyond your years."

"That sounds fine with me. Really, I'm truly grateful, Mistress Lazarov," she fairly bubbled. "I promise I will try my best."

Mistress Lazarov fixed her with a gimlet stare. "You had better." Her serious mein broke as she gave a rare smile. "I think we will get on well, Hermione. And while Mistress Lazarov is well and good in formal situations, I think three years of it will be tiring. So please, if you permit, I think that the two of us had best dispense with the formalities in private."

She swallowed. "You mean…"

"Yes, you may call me Krasmira, but _only_ when we are alone. Otherwise, it is Mistress Lazarov, as to be called otherwise by my apprentice is considered disrespectful."

Readily, she agreed, and she and Mistress Lazarov—Mistress Krasmira—Krasmira(!) approached a witch the Healer knew and had them witness their binding, which took place by a nice fountain with a statue of a unicorn playing amongst the water.

They held each other's forearms, and a conjured cloth was wrapped around them. A long intonation and a flash of light later, and the job was done, a scroll with the terms appearing next to them. Krasmira grabbed it, duplicated it, and put one copy in her robes while handing the other to her.

"Well, my apprentice in truth," she told Hermione, "I would say that wasn't bad for a day's work, hm? Shall we return home? The portkey is set for us to leave soon, I believe."

Hermione nodded and reached out to touch the disc. A handful of minutes later, she was back in Bulgaria with a light heart, a full mind, and a scroll declaring her a bound apprentice to Krasmira Lazarov, the Brightest Healer of all Europe.

In this moment, she felt as if things couldn't get any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Hermione's age: I got a lot of comments on Hermione's age last chapter, so I hope to provide some clarity. The article said she was 13, and when I wrote this, I originally intended that as an error on behalf of the article's author (for a reason I cannot recall, but I do remember it being a conscious choice). However, I understand that was confusing and have since corrected it to 14. However, with the Time-Turner, and how close it is to Hermione's birthday (only a few months), Hermione is comfortably into her 15th year. Hope this clears things up.
> 
> Additionally, the summary has been updated as I gear up for Goblet of Fire to better fit a larger plot past the summer. 
> 
> Food for thought: Who would win in a fight, Krasmira or Molly Weasley? Asking for a friend.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Two

Even though three days had passed since the Festival of Blessings **,** Viktor still felt drained from its lingering effects.

It likely didn't help that he was juggling so many things, each of which required his complete attention to properly tend to, and that he had so many things coming at him.

What was he supposed to do about the realisation that Svetlana was clearly up to something with Quickfoot? Should he wait to tell Kosta until he figured out what precisely they were doing? Or did Kosta already know?

And what about his studies? Hermione's suggestion that he contact Professor Flitwick to establish a correspondence (regardless of whether he went to Hogwarts or not) was sound, but sending a letter of introduction to a wizard as well-regarded in academic circles as Filius Flitwick was something that Viktor wanted to spend proper time—time it seemed he did not have—doing.

The thought of Hogwarts made him think of the missive Karkaroff had sent him this morning detailing the trials he would have to go through to make it on the ship. Of course, Karkaroff conveyed his expectations of Viktor's performance in said trials _quite_ well, too.

It wasn't the only missive that had brought him some amount of grief. The one Demetrius had sent this morning was perhaps the thing that weighed on him most of all, though it was the one he could do the least about. It seemed that _Maika_ was having another episode. They seemed to be getting more frequent, and Viktor refused to consider what that meant.

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Viktor rued the day that Milena sat him down and explained to him the most basic outline of her illness—the family curse that had been cast upon her great-great grandmother, to be precise—that she had. It could steal her away from him far before he should be having to say his goodbyes if they could not manage to find a solution. While both Demetrius and Milena assured them they were doing all they could to find a cure, they remained frustratingly vague about the curse's details, enough so that Viktor couldn't help

This all weighed heavily on his mind even as the world continued to turn and the semi-finals loomed only a week away. Bulgaria had not won the Cup in almost two centuries, and the fact they were so close meant the pressure was flying ever higher.

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, there was too much going on. How was he supposed to juggle everything and all the roles he was supposed to play? Viktor, the son and brother. Viktor Krum, the second son of the Krums. Viktor, the seventh year Durmstrang student. Viktor Krum, the Quidditch player.

At least there was one relationship with utterly no expectations upon him. His and Hermione's relationship was something simple and pure. She always welcomed him when she saw him and was glad for his presence. She didn't ask for anything that he couldn't give, and she always met him where he was at.

Getting to know her and seeing her flourish within the context of a sport that he loved was one of the most rewarding experiences that he had had in his recent memory. When he was able to witness her doing what she loved, her face bright and mind inquisitive...she truly shone then.

Viktor exhaled slowly at the image of Hermione in her burgundy Healing robes, with her hair braided back and secured with a strip of cloth, smiling at him from across their spot at the river. She was so beautiful when she let herself relax and simply be, her face free of clouds and worry. That was becoming less and less frequent as time progressed, however. Things were clearly weighing on her, and he couldn't blame her. Like him, she was under immense pressures, although from different quarters.

In this case, he wished that she would lean on him and ask him for help. This was one responsibility that he wouldn't mind helping shoulder, not when she helped him with his. But she refused, and she didn't talk to him about what made her have bags under her eyes or made her shoulders sag when she thought nobody was looking.

Eyeing the clock, Viktor groaned at the late hour. Tomorrow would be difficult enough as it was, even with sufficient sleep, but he felt too restless and agitated to sleep.

As he always did when he encountered these nights, he found himself on his broom hoping to fly himself into exhaustion. He was there already physically, but he hoped the familiar air against his skin under the backdrop of the stars would be enough to calm his mind.

Unfortunately, there were no stars to be seen. In fact, halfway through his flight it began to mist, and a further ten minutes after that it began to rain. Cursing, Viktor made his way home as he got steadily soaked through.

It would be just his luck, he thought fatalistically, if this was the thing that pushed him over the edge into sickness. He wasn't particularly prone to illness, however, so he was sure that such a pesky thing like a little rain wouldn't get him. He'd done this a hundred times before with no ill effects.

He'd be perfectly fine.

o-O-o

It became patently obvious the next day that Viktor was not fine. In fact, he was more than not fine.

Viktor was ill.

Mippy, who had been waiting with a hot beverage and a disapproving look for him when he came in the back door last night, cast a gimlet look his way even as she placed a large plate of breakfast in front of him.

"Young Master had best be taking care of himself," she admonished, her hands fisting in her apron.

"I know, Mippy," he replied through a head full of cotton. "It was an honest mistake."

A scowl appeared on her face to accompany her narrowed eyes, and he resisted the urge to fidget. "It had better been a big mistake, or Mippy will be most displeased. Mippy will tell Mistress you has been misbehaving!"

He winced. "Please don't. It really was a mistake. Besides, I have a feeling I'll be punished enough."

It was true. Already, he could feel heat radiating from him in a way he knew boded ill, but he grabbed his broom and went to the stadium regardless. His subsequent attempt to practice as normal yielded rather pathetic results, and Islov sent him to Krasmira with a somewhat disgusted look after he almost fell off his broom doing a wide turn.

The Healer seemed to share Islov's sentiments. "Vitya, you know as well as I do that you should not have been practicing." She loomed over him as he stood wearily by the Healing Hall's entrance. "Now come here and sit down— _quietly_ —while I figure out what you've done to yourself."

He merely sniffled as he complied, head hanging over in an exhausted slump even as he girded himself to go back out. Just because he wasn't feeling well wasn't an excuse for not coming in. If he wasn't incapacitated, as far as he was concerned, he was playable.

Of course, it was a bit hard to play when a sharp turn made his head throb and he saw stars when he sped into a sharp ascent towards the bright sun. He was lucky not to have fallen off, if he were being strictly honest with himself.

"I'm well enough to play," he replied stubbornly, though his subsequent cough at the end prompted a baleful look from Krasmira.

" _I'm well enough to play_ ," she mimicked, putting her hands on her hips. "Such a typical athlete, I tell you." She sniffed disdainfully. "Now sit here and drink this, and then this." Handing him two phials, she watched him as he obediently downed first one, then the other. He grimaced at the combined taste.

"Apprentice Granger," Krasmira called Hermione over from where she was dubiously looking at a phial of potion on a cart, "come here if you please."

Carefully, Hermione set the potion down and walked over, her open robes trailing behind her. "Mistress?"

"As you can see, Viktor has somehow come to the pitch despite being ill. Of course, he managed to develop bronchial inflammation in addition to what I think will be a rather nasty case of Pixie Pox—"

"Pixie Pox?" he asked, alarmed. Where in Merlin's name did he pick that up? Damn, he was going to be out for days if he had caught that.

Krasmira fixed him with a look. "Yes, Pixie Pox _and_ bronchial inflammation, Mr Krum, because it appears you are nothing but an overachiever. Now, Mia, what two potions did I just administer to him and why?"

Hermione looked over at him appraisingly with what he was beginning to think of as her Healer Hermione look, her mouth pursed in thought. "I would guess a Standard Healing Draught as well as Licsowksi's Rapid Drying Draught. The Standard Healing Draught would act as a base on which the Rapid Drying Draught can better perform its job to dry the liquid forming in his lungs."

Krasmira nodded approvingly. "I can see your reasoning, and you were partially correct. I administered the Rapid Drying Draught, but I paired it with an Accelerated Healing Potion due to the fact that it would address both the inflammation and mild fluid present in the lungs as well as the classic symptoms of Pixie Pox, which I doubt Viktor has yet noticed."

She pointed at his arm, where a strange patch of rough, iridescent skin shone. "That rash is likely to develop in parts all over his body over the next few days and will become very uncomfortable. I am hoping that the potion would have a chance to quickly counteract the inflammation that is present throughout his system."

Hermione was nodding and writing something in a small notebook she had pulled out of her robes, her quill flying across the pages. "That makes much better sense. Was it the severity that warranted the Accelerated Potion versus the Standard Healing Draught?"

Sensing them about to dive down into one of their more academic discussions, Viktor made to rise from the bed. An almost negligent flick of Krasmira's wand prevented him from doing so, and his look of surprise in her direction was greeted with thin lips and militant eyes. "And just where, exactly, do you think you're going?"

He tried to parse the question. "Back to practice?" Where else would he be going?

Hermione frowned, absently sticking the quill into her hair where it hung neatly over her ear. "Viktor, you can't just go back to practice," she chided. "You're sick and need your rest."

"You've dosed me with two potions and I'm feeling better already. It doesn't make sense to just laze around," he argued.

Hermione sniffed, the action eerily similar to the one Krasmira had done just minutes earlier. "You aren't _lazing around_ ," she retorted. "You're recovering. There's a difference. Now take your shoes off and lie down."

When he didn't immediately obey, she looked down her nose, warning, "Don't make me do it for you, because I will."

"Dictator," he muttered, feeling irritable if only because he felt like he was breathing with a five kilogram sack on his chest.

"Stubborn," she followed tartly, and bent down to take his shoes off. He was too tired to put up much of a fuss, and when she straightened up and put a finger to his chest, he laid down without much of an argument. The pillow felt heavenly against his head, and his eyes slid shut of their own accord.

There was a light brush of something against his forehead, the feeling cool and soothing as it swept his hair back. "Rest." Hermione's voice washed over him. "We'll be right here when you wake up."

Darkness took him, then, and he knew no more for quite some time, his mind peaceful and his dreams barren. When he at last stirred, he was tucked under the light top sheet and a glass of water had been placed on the bedside table. The room itself was noticeably darker, and a glance outside the window revealed the sun was beginning to set.

He sat up, suddenly, alarmed that he had missed the entire day's worth of practice, and had to pause as a wave of dizziness washed over him and his body ached in strange places. Unfortunately, that reaction told him all he needed to know about his health: He was still sick and would likely miss the next day if Krasmira had anything to say about it.

" _Gluposti_ ," he cursed.

"Viktor, what are you doing trying to get up?" Hermione's light voice, always comforting, sounded from somewhere far away, and soft footsteps heralded her approach. A moment later, she was standing next to him, her concerned gaze resting on him.

He sighed, the action making his chest feel tight. No, he was definitely still unwell. "I wanted to sit up," he told her, his tone sounding vaguely sulky. "I wasn't even trying to get up."

"Let me check you out again. I'm a bit concerned you're having difficulty with that. You should be feeling a bit better by now. The potions have had time to set in and do their work, and you've slept the day away."

Quickly, she felt his forehead, the touch impersonal and cool. "Hm, still a bit warm it seems..."

Her wand moved in a slow figure eight as she slowly began casting something over his chest. As she looked at the readings it generated, her lips turned down. "There's some infection in there, I think, still."

Biting her lip, she seemed a little unsure of what to do next. "I think I might know what to do next, but I don't want to risk it. I can either try and find Mistress Lazarov, who had to step out for a while, or I can call Demetrius and get his opinion."

There was no hesitation. "Demetrius."

It wasn't that he didn't trust Krasmira—rather, he trusted that she would fix him up perfectly if he were to fall every time he went out onto the pitch—but Demetrius had watched over his family for decades. He knew and understood Demetrius' methods and thought processes in ways he doubted he would ever do another healer.

Well, he reconsidered, perhaps Hermione in the future once she had more experience under her belt.

Nodding, Hermione asked, "How can I contact him? Do you have a floo address?"

"Yes." He told it to her and she wrote it down, going to the giant fireplace in the far corner that was connected only to a few limited places so as to restrict access to the Healing Hall from potential intruders.

Hermione looked at a set of directions pinned to the wall next to it, made some adjustments to the floo, then said the address before sticking her head in. "Demetrius?" she called to the Healer she had met briefly during the Festival of Blessings. "Are you there? It's Mia. I'm in need of your assistance."

He could hear Demetrius' low baritone respond indistinctly. Moments later Hermione stepped away so as to let Demetrius step through, the Healer carrying his small, familiar medical bag at his side. Briefly, he greeted Hermione, though his sharp grey eyes were focused on Viktor alone.

"Well, my boy," he greeted him, "what have you done to yourself this time, hm?" His wand, a familiar polished ebony, began tracing the same set of diagnostics over his chest that Hermione had done only minutes earlier.

Viktor huffed. "I haven't _done_ anything."

"Except fly in the storm yesterday," Hermione put in tartly. "He had the beginning of bronchial inflammation, if you see here…" she pointed at a part of the spell overlaying his chest, and Demetrius nodded, "but it should have been solved by the potions we gave him earlier. I don't quite understand why it wasn't resolved, although I'm thinking it's because of a potential interaction with the Pixie Pox, perhaps? I'm unsure, and I know there's multiple paths forward so I didn't want to continue without further consultation."

"That's very wise of you," Demetrius praised her. "This is something a bit more advanced than you should have gotten to, I would think. The lungs are always very tricky to treat."

Hermione flushed in pleasure at the compliment. "Thank you. Healing is so delicate and there's no room for mistakes, so I didn't want to let my pride get ahead of me."

From his spot on the bed, Viktor dryly added, "I appreciate the caution. I, for one, would like to get well as soon as possible. I've got to get back to the pitch."

Cheerfully, Demetrius said, "That won't be happening for at least forty-eight hours." Viktor groaned and the Healer laughed. "That's what you get for flying in the rain after running yourself ragged. You know I told you that the Blessing would wear you down for a week or two, and here you are after only a few days trying to do everything like usual."

"Am I ever going to live this down?"

"No," they both chorused, and he turned his head into the pillow in disgust.

"It was one time," he groaned, "and I've flown in the rain many times before. I don't particularly understand why this time caused me to become so ill."

Demetrius closed his bag with a snap and stood. "I would say it's more luck than anything else. Now, let's get you back home and comfortable. I've got several more potions you'll have to take throughout the night. Is your guest room still open?"

Viktor motioned grandly with a hand, though the motion seemed more floppy and lackadaisical than magnanimous. "For you, my friend, it is always open."

Demetrius snorted and looked at Hermione. "Care to come through and help me get him sorted?"

"I should be able to," Hermione replied, looking around. "I've already settled everything for tomorrow. I'll just leave Mistress Krasmira a note telling her where I've gone if she returns."

"Excellent. Viktor, can you stand without assistance?"

He considered for a moment. Giving in reluctantly, he admitted, "Probably not."

Unfazed, Demetrius returned, "Then it's all the better that Mia comes with us. We will do as we did after the Festival of Blessings."

Both he and Hermione moved into position and Viktor slung his arms around them after slowly sitting up. "I'm sorry if I'm too heavy," he murmured, knowing he was hanging much like dead weight. The world was spinning, and he couldn't quite seem to figure out where the floo was any more.

Hermione sniffed as if he had said something particularly idiotic and cast a featherweight charm on him before they moved another step. He felt himself become lighter and more buoyant, and the exercise became much easier after that. Instead of lifting them, they were more guiding him where they wanted him to go.

Demetrius was speaking across him to Hermione as they navigated their way across the room. "The floo at his house isn't large enough for a stretcher," he was explaining, "else we would have been able to forego this altogether."

They somehow managed to get through in one piece, and in short order Demetrius had Viktor installed in his bed while Hermione looked on and tried to reassure an increasingly concerned Mippy. At last, in a bid to reassure the house elf, she asked her to fetch some soup, and the elf disappeared with a pop.

"You know she's going to tell your mother, right?" Demetrius asked while he uncorked a phial that he had drawn from his bag. "Drink this."

Dutifully, he swallowed the concoction, the combined taste of licorice and peppermint making him retch slightly at the end. "I know," he said after the resulting coughing fit subsided.

Moments later, his mother swept into the room in a billow of rust coloured robs, followed by Mippy. Viktor sighed. "Mia asked for soup, Mippy, not for _Maika_."

Defiantly, Mippy said, "Mistress needed to know. Mistress would be most displeased if Mippy did not tell her the Young Master was sick."

"Remember that kitchen implement you wanted for Christmas?" Viktor said threateningly. "It's not happening."

"Don't worry, Mippy," Milena reassured the elf, "I'll make sure Enzo gets it for you. Don't listen to my son. He's being difficult."

Struggling to sit up, Viktor told her, "You really shouldn't be here."

"I hate to say this," Demetrius added, "but I agree with him. Your immune system isn't strong enough to withstand something like this should you catch it."

His mother looked defiant, the paleness of her skin highlighting the pink in her cheeks. "If you think for even a second that I will stand by while my son is ill with not only one but two different things, you had best get your mind checked."

"Lady Krum," Hermione ventured hesitantly, "if you're truly immunocompromised, you shouldn't be here. Would it help ease your mind if we both promise to stay here tonight? Demetrius was going to already, but I wouldn't mind staying as well."

"Don't be silly, Mia," Viktor tried to dismiss. "Go home and rest. Demetrius will take care of me."

However, Milena had a considering and somewhat crafty look in her eye. "If I left you in my place,: she asked, "would you take care of him as I would?"

"I would do my utmost," Hermione swore, earnest as always.

Slowly, Milena nodded. "Very well. However," she warned, "I expect updates regularly through Mippy. If you are truly going to do as I would, you must fluff his pillow regularly and hover over him. Make sure he gets soup. He really likes that."

"Missy Mia already asked Mippy for soup!" Mippy squeaked.

"Did you now?" Milena arched a brow.

Hermione shrugged, a light flush creeping up her cheeks. "Everyone likes soup when they're sick."

Milena made a considering face and stepped forward, stroking Viktor's forehead. Both Healers made a bitten-back sound of protest at the contact but his mother ignored them. "How are you feeling, my _malka ptitsa_?"

The endearment made Viktor smile, though it was wan. "I am fine, _Maika_ ," he tried to reassure her. "Just tired. I accidentally got caught up in the storm yesterday."

She shook her head. "You silly boy," she scolded. "How many times have I told you to check the weather before you fly? And with the Blessing happening only days earlier, too!"

Viktor didn't need to look at Demetrius to know the family's Healer had a very specific look on his face that Viktor would classify as a strong cousin to smug.

"I know, I know." He couldn't muster the energy to argue. "I am sorry for it. Really."

"You had better be." She straightened the collar of his shirt, which had at some point been transfigured into a comfortable, lightweight pyjama shirt, and stepped back. "Listen to Mia and Demetrius," she instructed him, "or I will be most displeased."

He winced. Milena displeased was a sight to behold. "I promise, _Maika_."

After making sure everything was arranged to her satisfaction, his mother stepped through the floo and returned back to the Manor. Demetrius looked at the fireplace, clearly weighing something, before making a decision. "I need to talk to Lady Krum for a moment. I'll return shortly."

Both he and Hermione nodded, and the older Healer was gone a moment later, leaving just the two of them.

"You really did it to yourself this time, didn't you?" Hermione asked wryly. "You've gone from hero of the hour with the ritual over the weekend back to idiotic boy in rather short order, haven't you?"

"I resent being made fun of when I can't even muster the brainpower to come up with an adequate defense." His tone lacked any heat, instead sounding exhausted.

Hermione made a sympathetic sound, her hand briefly touching his own. "You are fairly ill, you know," she said. "Even with the potions we gave you this morning, you're not recovered.

Almost absently, she tucked the sheets around him, murmuring, "Honestly, you're still rather too peaky for my taste. How does soup and some rest sound? I think getting some food into you will make you feel loads better, even if you're not hungry. You've not eaten all day."

A little caught up in how nice it felt to be cosseted by the witch he—well, the witch he...what?—he didn't answer, but it didn't matter either way.

Mippy popped back in as if one cue, a sturdy ceramic bowl clutched in between her hands. "Mippy has got the soup!" she squeaked.

"Give it here." He struggled to sit up, having slid down sometime in the last few minutes, and held out his hands for the food. Hermione watched him slowly eat it, her gaze watchful...and perhaps a bit wistful.

At length, she commented, "You have such a caring family. I mean, I know Mippy and Demetrius aren't really your family, but they way they act...and your mother." A definite wistful quality. "It's wonderful to see."

In between ladling spoonfuls of delicious soup into his mouth, he replied, "I wouldn't quite say that they aren't family. Mippy is bound to the family. She feeds on our family magic to stay alive, and in return serves us." At her startled look, he quirked a brow. "Didn't anyone tell you that? No? Well, house elves are bound most commonly to families or individuals, and more rarely, to places, if they have enough ambient magic. Mippy has served my family for centuries."

"As for Demetrius," he continued, "his family has been serving mine for generations as well. I suppose the best way to label it, if we must, is vassalage. We've been connected for hundreds of years in some capacity. I suppose I think of him almost as an uncle. He has been around for as long as I've been alive."

Hermione seemed thoughtful. "So house elves aren't...slaves, or ill treated?" He took a second to try and determine if she was trying to insult his family's treatment of their elves, and at the expression on his face, she hastened to add, "Not your elves! I just…I saw an elf before. He was clothed in a pillowcase that was falling apart, and he kept trying to hurt himself if he thought he had displeased others."

At once, Viktor shook his head. "I would rather lose my wand than hurt our elves. The magic around our bond should prevent us from hurting them, and vice versa. It sounds like there was either something foul with the bond, or perhaps the elf himself could have been ill. Either way, that behaviour is abnormal, and I would certainly report that."

She appeared somewhat mollified at his answer, which was just as well since his eyes were slipping shut of his own accord. He heard her take a seat nearby, and she murmured, "Get some rest. I'll be right here when you wake up, and so will Demetrius. We'll get you fixed up before you know it."

He yawned and settled deeper into the pillows, his mind drifting. "I know you will, Mia. I trust you. You're mine, after all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Gluposti = crap  
> Malka ptitsa = little bird
> 
> I am so enjoying your comments everyone! Thank you for dropping a line and making me smile. Also, apparently everyone was generally in agreement: Milena would kick Molly's butt (with the exception of if Molly felt her children were being threatened). Those responses in particular made me laugh :)


	26. Chapter Twenty-Three

A few days after Viktor had fallen violently ill, Hermione was still thinking about the way those who loved him had closed ranks around him, from Krasmira to his mother to Demetrius and even the elves. Others had checked on him as well in various ways: His brother had sent an owl inquiring about his health; the team had sent their well wishes in the form of a Howler where they took turns telling him (loudly and with great pleasure) of the various ways that they would torture him if he didn't get better soon; and even the town had sent him a care package. Nevena, who had come to visit under the rather thin guise of bringing him some official correspondence (which had never manifested), had dispatched a messenger Patronus to update his brother and had promised to take care of the rest of the responses on his behalf.

"From the way everyone is acting," Viktor had grumbled, "you would think I'm at death's door. I'm only slightly under the weather."

Of course, Viktor was prone to under-stating things in this just as he was with everything else. He had, in fact, raged with fever for a full day and night as his body had fought the illness, lapsing into incoherency for long stretches of time. It was during that point that Demetrius had slept in his room to watch over him, though he had prohibited Hermione from doing the same and had, in fact, banished her to a room down the hall so she wouldn't pass out from exhaustion.

It was there she had spent a long, sleepless night wondering how he was, creeping down the hall to look in on him. Every time she had, Demetrius had been doing something—mopping his brow, rummaging through his bag with his entire arm stuck down it as he searched for something specific, or looking at a semi-permanent vitals spell he had cast to show on the wall.

Truly, Viktor didn't realize how lucky he was, Hermione thought as she recalled everyone's care and concern. He was able to grumble and kick up a fuss because he was secure in the knowledge that such behaviour wouldn't dispel the affection between him and those who cared for him. He was rich in that aspect of his life, and he didn't even realize it.

Of course, Hermione didn't begrudge him those bonds for even a moment; in fact, she counted herself lucky to be able to count him as one of her best and closest friends in such a short period of time, and she rather thought he felt the same way given his assertion.

 _You're mine, after all_.

What that meant precisely wasn't quite clear to her, but since it had been right before his fever had spiked and he had become incoherent for the first time, she chose to focus on the underlying affection in the statement. He had probably meant something along the lines of _after all, you're my friend_. Perhaps even _after all, you're my good friend_ , if she was lucky.

That label was something, she was not afraid to admit, she would greedily grasp onto with both hands. Unlike Viktor, she didn't have a large support network of friends who would rally around her should she fall ill or need assistance.

In fact, she could probably count them on one hand: Harry and Ron, though they were sometimes fair-weather friends; perhaps Neville and Ginny, though she wasn't quite sure about them; Viktor, who at least she was sure about; and maybe even Clara, who seemed to put up with her, if not outright like her.

She was under no illusion that Krasmira or even Milena actually felt any sort of strong affection toward her. Krasmira fell into the same category as the private tutors her parents had employed to continue her education once they had pulled her out of Westminster under prep at eight and her professors at Hogwarts: she was just another pupil to guide through the system before unleashing her upon the world.

Milena likely viewed her more as a friend of her son's rather than having any direct affection toward her, but Hermione had enjoyed her conversations with the witch all the same. It was the most interaction she'd had, really, with a truly maternal figure.

Helen Granger was not particularly maternal, nor was she present enough to _be_ maternal were she so inclined. She and Daddy were typically off doing things—important things, of course, as relatives to the monarch of Britain were wont to do—but Hermione had been left behind in their wake, first because she was too young, then because she was recalcitrant and shy, and then finally because of the odd things that happened around her no matter how hard Hermione had tried to be a good, studious, upstanding daughter they would be able to take anywhere.

It was precisely the last thing that had gotten her private tutoring, though her parents had simply told everyone it was due to her 'truly prodigious intellect'. Said intellect, of course, then had to be trotted out in occasion to buff up the story, but she hadn't minded studying for those moments (truly, she had loved it, which had lent a fair amount of credence to the claim), not when it meant she got to spend some time with her parents at a meal or even on a brief excursion somewhere.

It was what had made the invitation to France this summer so special. She had been excited and thrilled beyond measure when she had seen the invitation written on the heavy ivory parchment her mother preferred to use when communicating via owl.

_Darling,_

_Your father and I will be going to France for a few weeks_ _this summer for a vacation before we begin the busy season. We were thinking you should join us—you're older now, and you need to be more formally introduced. The Margraves will be there with a few others of the set._

_I know you had planned on spending most of the summer at Bainbridge studying as you typically do, but darling, you mustn't forget the other part of your duties as well._

_All my love,_

_Helen_

_Duchess of Clarendale and Avon_

_Countess of Athlone_

_Viscountess of Trematon_

With the invitation had come a new set of worries, but Hermione had done the utmost to prepare for the vacation even as the year hurtled to a close. Because she had the Time-Turner, she had as much time as she needed to be adequately ready, so she had written out a list and checked it off slowly.

First, she had brought out her muggle books, which she had stored in her trunk, to revise. She also took up the piano again using the old piano in the mostly unused music room off the sixth floor corridor, so as to be ready to play when Daddy asked—and he _always_ asked. Finally, and most importantly, she had quietly asked Lavender for help fixing up her appearance so Mother might stop being so perennially disappointed that Hermione had not gotten the Granger genes that made their side of the family so striking. The blonde witch had been thrilled beyond measure but hadn't been able to help much once she discovered Hermione could only do beautification by muggle means, given the Trace.

Now that she had dispensation for the summer to use her magic, she could utilize those charms if she pleased, though she had never quite gotten the hang of the hair charms Lavender tried. Her hair just simply didn't like them, or perhaps she had never really been truly proficient at them. However, Clara had mentioned her mother was a world-renowned beautician, so she figured she might be able to ask her for help. The witch always did have impeccably done hair.

Regardless of if her own hair was well done or not, she thought tetchily, she still hadn't made a decision about France. Everything had seemed so straightforward in that moment when she was in Dumbledore's office at the beginning of the summer. Dumbledore, one of the greatest wizards ever, had asked _her_ for help. Not as Harry's friend, but because _she_ had the skillset necessary to pull off the task. Not to mention that Sirius, who had been cast aside and left behind (obviously not in a different manner than Hermione, but she had felt a kinship all the same), needed her, _and_ she had been given the opportunity to pursue a potential career under a world renowned Healer.

The Headmaster's suggestion of using the Time-Turner to accomplish both sets of responsibilities if she needed to had also seemed terribly straightforward. After all, she had been using it rather successfully all year, and what was one more—

"No, no, _no_."

The Time-Turner was not an option.

But if she did….

No. The consequences were so great, and Mistress Lazarov had said, explicitly, that she could tell if Hermione had used it.

The cost would be potentially astronomical if she were caught having used it. She could lose her newly minted apprenticeship if she used it, and even more than that, she could get sucked back into the gleaming golden lure of the Dark artefact.

"That's right," she told herself, nodding. "It's Dark. It's addictive. That's why we don't use them to do petty, stupid things like go on _vacation to France_. Merlin, what are you thinking?"

Almost against her will, she turned to look at her trunk, where she knew the golden hourglass was hidden from everyone but her. It would be so easy….

But wrong. It was wrong.

Sucking in a breath, she crossed her arms, her hands tightly gripping her forearms as she wrestled with herself.

She needed to get out of the house before she did something impulsive, stupid, and distinctly un-Hermione.

The next minute was a whirlwind of activity as she haphazardly grabbed some materials and stuck them in her bag. Determinedly, she strode out of the house, not even stopping to look at her typical study spot under the tree.

There was a nice pond a ways down the road going opposite of the Square that she had discovered when she had first explored the area around their house. It wasn't the most picturesque place—the water wasn't particularly clear, though it wasn't muddy either, and the grass was a bit high and reedy for her taste—but there were a few good trees she could sit under. Most importantly, it was far away from the house.

A minute or so into her rather determined trek, however, she abruptly turned around and marched in the other direction towards the Square. It might be better for her to be around people and keep her mind busy for a while first. Perhaps she could even pick up something in one of the stands that she could use as a fidget tool to keep her fingers busy. That way they wouldn't always be going to the spot on her chest where the hourglass had sat.

The Square was bustling with activity, as was usual. The hum of magic and merriment was bright in the air, and Hermione felt it cocoon her. Something about it was soothing somehow, and she relaxed into it, her shoulders unwinding as she bent the entirety of her attention to the act of mindlessly window shopping, the activity strangely engaging. Typically, she was much more of a 'need item, get item' shopper, with no room for browsing.

Unless it was a bookstore, of course, but that went without saying.

As she looked through the windows, wide-eyed at the things she sometimes saw, she found herself enjoying the activity despite the problem lurking in the back of her mind. It was nice to let go for a little while and let her mind take a rest. Instead of cramming in knowledge, her brain was breathing and opening up the sensory experiences around her, and Merlin did she ever enjoy it.

A soft summer breeze, faintly scented with the aroma of fresh bread and crushed lavender, brushed her face. The hum of people laughing, talking, and enjoying themselves was overlaid by the sweet sound of music being played in the center of the Square, and the sun glinted off the windows of the shops as she idly browsed. Eventually she grew warm enough that she sought out a cold beverage, although she was waylaid by the sight of an ice cream stall doing a brisk business next to a tall, bright toy stand.

A scoop of creme fraîche later and Hermione found herself wandering the stalls scattered across the large plaza. She had had such luck with these before (Clara had loved the ribbons she had given her in thanks for helping her a while back) that she figured one would have a nice necklace she could use as a substitute for the thing that she was most determinedly not thinking about.

One stall, which was trimmed with a bright, charming turquoise, caught her attention as various necklaces and bracelets winked in the summer sun. Idly, she browsed through them, discarding the gaudier and flashier ones first. Her wandering fingers slowed, though, as she made her way through the smaller necklaces. She almost picked up a chain with a small hippogryff attached to it, the small figure flaring its wings and rearing up in the palm of her hand before settling down, but didn't want the constant reminder of Sirius and their midnight flight with Harry to be hung around her neck. Ultimately, she picked a small abraxan out, the body of the horse golden and the expertly crafted miniature wings made of beaten silver.

As she held it up to her neck to see how low it would hang, the merchant obligingly held up a small mirror so she could see her reflection. The charm rested in between her breasts, right where the Time-Turner had used to. Almost out of habit, her hand came up and clasped the charm, the edges of the wings pressing against her fingers reassuringly.

"It's perfect," she told him. "I'll take it."

The slight pull of the chain against her neck was comforting, and she felt lighter somehow as she strolled across the plaza. Eventually she found her way back to the bookstore she had been in so many weeks earlier, the quiet space brightened by the light streaming in through the windows. The smell of paper and ink was comforting to her, and she closed her eyes for a moment as she breathed it in.

As was typical, she lost herself to the act of browsing and reading. The stack of books in her arms grew higher and higher until she had one neatly tucked right under her chin. When she reached for another one, the stack wobbled precariously, and she snatched her hand back to steady the books. A moment later, she laughed to herself as she realized her folly and spelled the stack to float next to her as she perused the next book.

Eventually, she looked over at her stack and discovered it was almost higher than the bookshelves. At that point, she was marginally embarrassed to head to the front with her collection. After spending five agonizing minutes trying to cut down her stack, she checked out with three fewer books than she had originally started with and headed out with her purchases shrunk to miniatures and neatly tied together with twine.

Her attention was caught by the sign of the Quidditch shop next door as she emerged, and she stepped inside with the intent of procuring something for Harry’s birthday. Luckily, she knew what kind of broomkeeping kits the team used and managed to acquire one of those, along with a book of spells that held at least one she knew Viktor used. As soon as she got home, she'd wrap it up, mark the relevant spell so Harry would know to use it, and get Svirep to take it to Harry. Hopefully it would cheer him up during his summer at the Dursleys.

With a spring in her step, she turned towards home, her stride loose and relaxed instead of fast and tense as it had been when she had set out earlier. It seemed she would have to visit the pond another day: she'd whiled away the day at the Square, and the sun was fast crawling towards the edge of the horizon.

Sirius wasn't home when she returned, and when he did come back—something that came as a faint surprise—he was in a rare good mood, one she was loath to spoil.

"I was thinking," she said casually as she spooned some soup into a bowl, "about the next few weeks. You see, when I first agreed to do this, I mentioned to Dumbledore that I still wanted to go on vacation with my parents in France. He said it was perfectly fine, of course, but I just wanted to let you know that it'll be my turn to go traveling."

Sirius looked at her act as if she were daft. "You what?"

Patiently, she repeated herself. "I was thinking I could go to France to be with my parents. On vacation. Like it was agreed-upon with Dumbledore."

Slowly, Surius' eyebrows crept up his forehead. "You can't just _go_ to France."

"Kras and I 'just went' to Italy," she responded tetchily. "Not that you would know about that, actually, but I did that just this week. It's not impossible, you know."

He shook his head. "That's not what I meant and you know it. You've got obligations here that you've agreed to see you through. Does your apprenticeship ring a bell?" He looked pointedly at her. "If not that, then how about the small matter of my Polyjuice potion?"

She pressed her lips and took a deep breath, trying not to say anything rashly. "I'm aware of them. Thanks. But Dumbledore said I could use the Time-Turner—"

"Bullshite."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Bullshite. He would never give you the Time-Turner so you could do something as asinine as a family vacation."

She took another, longer breath. I didn't particularly help. "Are you calling me a liar?"

He spread his hands. "I am simply having a hard time reconciling the idea that Albus Dumbledore, one of the greatest wizards of all time, would willingly hand over an incredibly dangerous, possibly lethal artefact to a teenage girl for the express purpose of helping her take a vacation."

"He's given it to me before and it went just fine."

The older wizard barked out a laugh, running his fingers through his hair. "'Just fine?'" He repeated, tone incredulous. "' _Just fine_?' I watched you, Hermione. I watched you all year as you came out to that lake, and let me tell you if someone with first-hand experience of your decline over the school year, it was not 'just fine'. Both your physical and mental well-being or beginning to be in seriously precarious positions, not to mention the additional drain on your magical core."

The shock that his words engendered (he had been watching her all along?) was momentarily pushed aside and she stubbornly said, "That was for months! This will only be for a week. The pull won't be nearly as bad."

"Ah," he said softly, settling back against the counter as he crossed his arms. "That's it."

Sometimes, Sirius made her want to do something violent. "There _what_ is?"

Baldly, he said, "Once an addict, always an addict. Are you feeling the draw, Hermione? Do you want another hit?" Knowing, piercing eyes had turned from flashing anger to molten sympathy—or was it pity?

She ground her teeth together. It was none of his business what she felt. And that accusation, that _label…_

"How dare you call me an addict," she flung back. "I am not, but even if I were—even if I _had been_ , "she corrected herself, "addicts recover. They're not _always_ addicts. That's flawed thinking."

"Were you using the Time-Turner even when you were exhausted?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"Did you crave the feeling of euphoria it gave you?"

The joy—the incandescent feeling of power, of adventure, of knowing she superseded the boundaries of time itself—

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that—"

"And do you crave it even now?" His voice was infinitely softer, his eyes sad. "Do you take it out and sometimes look at it thinking, _one more time surely wouldn't hurt_?"

Guilty, she thought of the many times that she had opened the secret compartment and stared at the necklace, trying to rationalize using it. Just once. To do—well, anything. More time to study. More time to sleep. More time to figure out what Sirius was doing so she could understand who he had become.

"You don't have to say anything," Sirius continued when she remained silent, "but I do want to tell you a story."

"I hardly think this is the time for a story, Sirius."

"Just listen, Hermione. I'm not telling you this because I enjoy it. Rather the opposite, actually."

Somewhat reluctantly, she subsided.

"When I was at Hogwarts," the older wizard began, "there was a girl." He laughed softly. "There was always a girl—or a boy, really, I wasn't particular. But anyways, this girl… Well. She was special. Her name was Marlene."

His eyes grew softer, his lips turning up at the edges. "She was beautiful and bright like the sun. Her laughs filled the corridors, and her heart was kind. But Marlene had a terrible secret. You see, she liked Divination."

"And that's a terrible secret?" She asked, confused.

"No." He shook his head. "Her terrible secret was that she liked Divination too much. She was something of a prodigy, able to see far into the future clearly. And she grew better and better, she wanted to see further and further into the future. She stumbled upon an elixir purported to do just that and set about making it. But what she didn't know—or knew and ignored, I'm unclear on that—was that drinking the elixir would help her, but at a terrible cost."

"You see," he continued, shoulders sagging as he glanced down at the floor, "the elixir, or _Faraday's Farseeing Eye_ , as it was called, was powerful. But it came at a price. Each time she used it, she lost her memory of the past even though she gained a piece of the future. Things like this are never free, you see. They always come at a cost."

A dawning sense of horror swept over Hermione as she thought through the implications. "She was forgetting the past."

Slowly, he nodded. "And the present, once she had gone through her life up to then. Everything that made her Marlene was slowly stolen from her—her memories made her who she was. A beautiful soul, a capable witch. By the time anyone realized what had happened, it was too late: she had forgotten memories up to and through some of her time at Hogwarts, but the visions she saw convinced her she needed to keep seeing, to keep drinking, for the good of the Wizarding world."

Hermione was aghast. "At the expense of herself?"

Sirius' smile was infinitely sad. "She claimed she was just one of many and that darkness was coming. There was a way to prevent it, or at least forestall it, but she could never quite discover it in her visions. So she kept drinking. One more, and one more, and one more, convinced that it was always the last time, that this vision would be the one to reveal the secret. But the cost was too high, and her memories were gone before she found it out."

"What happened to her?" She couldn't help but ask.

"Well," he said steadily, looking up at her, "because she had become so consumed—because she had been ruled by the idea of the possibilities the elixir could give her, she lost herself. She didn't understand who she was, where she was, or what she was. Her parents placed her in the Long-Term Damage ward at St Mungo's in hopes they could find a remedy. However…"

When he seemed unlikely to continue, the silence drawing out longer and longer, she prompted, "However?"

"She died, Hermione," he snapped. "Obviously."

She blanched as his words sat in the air between them for a long, full moment. Slowly, he took a deep breath. "Excuse me—this is difficult."

Chastened, Hermione also apologized. "I'm sorry. That was rather insensitive of me."

"Yes, it was, but I started this for a reason, and I'll end it for the same." He sighed. "Marlene never woke up one day. We don't know precisely what happened: if an experimental potion went wrong, if her magic had abandoned her because of a prolonged abuse, or if something else altogether occurred."

"Whatever the reason, she died, Hermione." He looked up at her, eyes dark. "She died, and she's never coming back. Do you want to do the same?"

"It wouldn't be like that. I'm—it's different."

"Isn't it?" He asked mercilessly. "At least with Marlene she wasn't using an addictive object with a known effect of magical drainage per use. For her, it was only her memories. For you it's a critical component that keeps you alive.

When she opened her mouth to argue, he raised a hand to forestall any argument she put forward. "Let me ask you this. Are you willing to leave everyone behind? Are you willing to leave Harry, and Ron, your parents, your teachers, Viktor, the team, your Mistress—all those who treasure you, who love you? Are you willing to let your memory haunt them for the rest of their lives as they think of you, not with joy and fondness but sorrow and regret, and let them try to figure out why they didn't know earlier, why they didn't see the signs, why they didn't stop you in time?"

"Will you be that selfish, but shortsighted, but willing to place such a burden on them?" He asked, his eyes drilling into her. "Only you can know the answer to that. Only you can make that decision. I can only hope it is the right one."

Feeling as though she had been struck across the face as her heart stuttered, she asked tremulously, "Then why did Dumbledore give it to me in the first place? And why did he give it _back_ for the summer?"

"I don't know." Sirius crossed his arms, his lips a thin slash on his face as he pressed them together. "I really don't. He shouldn't have. It's sheer lunacy to give such a thing to anyone, let alone a minor, a _child_. I suppose, perhaps, he thought you might give it to me so that I could use it." He furrowed his brows, his tone dubious. "Perhaps. But that doesn't explain the school year before this. _That_ , I have no answer to. By all rights, I'm shocked that you were able to resist it for so long and that you emerged relatively unscathed."

"Oh," she said off-handedly, not thinking. "It's because I have a Dark affinity."

The second the words exited her mouth, she regretted them. She might have told Sirius at the beginning of the summer, but given the new, increasingly peculiar and sometimes downright unsettling Sirius that had been showing up recently, she wouldn't trust him with that information at all. But their conversation, and his demeanor, had become reminiscent of the old Sirius, and she had slipped.

Hopefully this wouldn't come back to haunt her.

"A what?" he repeated incredulously.

She shrugged, looking down at the table.

"Hermione," his voice was fierce as he suddenly gripped her by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her, "do not tell a soul about that. Let's hope that nobody knows."

If she didn't know better, she would say he was frightened.

"Is it a bad thing?" she asked, voice small. "To have that?" It has seemed rather the opposite, she had thought.

"No." He checked himself before saying something, then huffed, then repeated, "No. It is only the consequences of someone knowing that I fear. Don't tell anyone."

"I won't."

" _Promise_ me."

She was actually beginning to get a bit scared. "All right, Sirius, I promise. Please, you're hurting me."

He released her as if he'd been burned, his fingers still cupped as if he was holding her. "I—I'm sorry."

There was something in his tone that made her wonder what, exactly he was apologizing for.

That conversation, along with all the other events of the day, left her in a mental turmoil that followed her even as she went up to her room to prepare for bed, at which point she was greeted by the sight of The Dress (as she had started calling it in her mind) hanging in plain sight. It was a stark reminder that the Quidditch World Cup Ball was only a few days away and she would have to face a situation that she knew she would not perform well in. Her stomach lurched at the idea.

Though she was familiar with the idea of a ball and had, in fact, attended similar such events in the past with her parents as they permitted, she had always been relegated to the position of an accessory, the adage of _children_ _being seen and not heard_ holding particularly true. This time, though, she wouldn't be able to hide behind anyone and would instead have to stand on her own as she socialized with notable and influential figures, many celebrities in their own right.

It was unfortunate, she thought absently, that Sirius was required to come with her because she wasn't an adult. At least when she had attended occasions such as these in the past with her parents, she'd had a notion of how it would go: wear the clothing given to her, exchange banalities, smile when referred to, and stand quietly. With Sirius, she couldn't even predict what he would do, and she certainly couldn't even rely on him staying by her. Although, a large part of her mind asked, did she actually want that? Wouldn't she be better off on her own without him?

"Merlin," she groaned, dragging a hand over her face. She still couldn't dance well and she still didn't know how to do her hair or to make sure she would look presentable. Not to mention she wasn't sure she had all the strange Pureblood customs memorized, and there were multiple ways of greeting different people from different countries…

Her blood pressure was surely too high to be healthy, she thought as she slipped between the covers. She had to stop thinking about this, or she would never fall asleep.

Unfortunately, the social occasion was not the only thing rolling around in her mind keeping the sweet mindlessness of sleep at bay.

" _Do you take it out and sometimes look at it thinking,_ one more time surely wouldn't hurt _?"_

Hadn't that been exactly what she'd been doing earlier this morning, rationalizing this as a unique occasion that warranted the use of the Time-Turner? It hadn't helped that Dumbledore had fairly endorsed its use for precisely this thing: he was, after all, an adult who she very much looked up to. But his approval directly contradicted Krasmira, and now Sirius's, stance on its use.

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling as she thought furiously.

Pros to going to France: She got to go to France. She would get to see her parents, who had _invited her_ to come with them. She could even, perhaps, bond with them as she never had before, if she played her cards right. All she had to do was present herself well—perhaps she could speak of her summer internship? It was, maybe, a little impressive.

Cons to going to France: She might not enjoy herself. She had to leave Bulgaria and miss work as well. Her parents likely wouldn't want her to practice her magic while she was with them, either.

But if she didn't go, what if they became displeased with her? What if they...no, they couldn't disown her: she was their only child. But to turn down their invitation, which they extended so very rarely...

And yet…

" _So she kept drinking. One more, and one more, and one more, convinced that it was always the last time."_

_Madam Lazarov's eyes were dark, her tone intent as she said, "Time-Turners are parasitic and often lead to the death of its users."_

Even though it would solve so many problems…even though it would let her see her parents and continue working with the team, the potential consequences seemed dire. Was this vacation worth the possibility of such a terrible price? And even if she did use it, and she managed to lock it away again, Mistress Lazarov said she would know and that she would sack her.

The costs seemed high. Too high.

_"Are you willing to let your memory haunt them for the rest of their lives?"_

"No," she whispered.

Slowly, she turned away from her trunk, where she knew the Time-Turner was safely nestled in its compartment.

"No, I'm not. Not this time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Looks at google doc slightly wild-eyed, then up at the camera* Hermione's not the only one that's going to have high blood pressure.
> 
> I rewrote this chapter four times. This chapter was THE chapter that got me blocked back the beginning of the summer. Thank God it's over and out out of my hands so I can't change it again. Please, take it and have mercy on my poor writer's soul.
> 
> Next up: ~~the Ball~~


	27. Chapter Twenty-Four

“I find it hard to believe that you were flat on your face less than a week ago,” Pyotr told Viktor as the Beater looked him over. “I mean, you literally couldn’t fly in a straight line and yet here you are, the very picture of health. Kras and Mia must’ve taken  _ very  _ good care of you.”

Viktor looked at him through slitted eyes. “Are you being weird? Why are you being weird? Leave them out of whatever strange ideas you’ve got floating through your head.”

“Are you harassing Viktor already?” Alexei joined the two of them at the edge of the frankly cavernous ballroom, a stein of beer already in hand. “You can’t start that stuff without me and Vasily. You know better than that.”

“Nobody is harassing anyone about anything.” Viktor glared at Pyotr. “Right?”

Pyotr tugged on the cuff of his formal robes casually, all nonchalance. “I was just commenting that Mia and Kras must have taken excellent care of Viktor for him to be in such good shape.”

“Yeah.” Alexei nodded seriously. “You almost fell off your broom several times.”

“Will you both just—” he huffed, “can you just—I never fell off my broom!”

“We never said you did,” Pyotr said consolingly. “We just said you  _ almost _ did. Twice.”

“Actually, I saw three times,” Alexei put in.

Feeling the heat of a flush crawling up his neck and into his face, Viktor growled, “Will both of you just shut up? There was no falling. Ever.”

“Fair enough,” Pyotr shrugged. “This leaves us with more time to talk about the absolutely  _ riveting  _ topic of you and Mia.” At the resulting look on Viktor’s face, his smirk broke into an outright grin. “The  _ English Rose _ , I believe she was called,” he said,  _ sotto _ voice.

Alexei wiggled his eyebrows. “Did she nurse you through your sickness? I’ll just bet she kissed you better.”

“Actually,” Viktor glared at them both, “Demetrius stayed up all night ‘nursing me better’, so if you’re going to make jokes about anyone kissing it better it would be him.”

The look of disgust on their faces was enough to make him smirk. 

Making a face, Alexei said, “Thanks for that image. But in all seriousness,” he leaned forward, “are you two paired off now? You and Mia? You see, I had a be—”

“Beautiful idea!” Pyotr hurriedly interjected. “Yes, a beautiful idea indeed, Alexei. About the dance competition? Azucena sent me an owl mocking me about how poorly we showed last time and I told her we were going to crush them so badly they wished they’d never ever set sight upon this floor.” He gestured at the huge expanse of white marble, which was dotted with groups of people talking as the band warmed up.

Pyotr’s gesture drew Viktor’s attention to his surroundings even as Alexei and Pyotr continued with increasingly outlandish ideas about how they could rig the entire dance competition that the teams were somehow, for some strange reason, in dead earnest about. The ballroom was incredible, a huge room built into the edge of the bottom of a cliff that opened into a quiet lagoon. Inside, people from all over the world mingled in a huge variety of formal dress, a mixture of languages spilling and tumbling over each other as they easily conversed using the short-acting translation charm they have been given upon arriving.

The far side was composed of floor-to-ceiling windows that had been Vanished to allow the room to open up directly onto the beach, the red and oranges of the evening sky bleeding onto the all white ceilings and walls like streaks of paint on a watercolour. Alexei, who had joined them after checking out the exterior part of the ballroom, had informed them there were three separate fountains outside, one of which was spouting champagne while the other two spouted water. He had also mentioned that there were several sets of brooms should anyone want to start a pickup game, which had been popular in balls past, especially once everyone had had some time to unwind and have a few drinks.

Truly, it was nothing like anything Viktor had ever experienced. 

“Hey, I’m gonna go get another drink.” Alexei, who had grown distracted from his conversation with Pyotr, looked around as he tried to find someone to help him. “Viktor, Pyotr, anything for you?” Viktor shook his head even as Pyotr requested some elf wine, and a moment later Alexei was off on his hunt.

Pyotr, who had turned back to face Viktor, suddenly got that kind of stupid look on his face that Viktor normally associated with the Beater only when he was thinking about Clara. “Oh look,” he said, his tone distracted. “Clara, Mia, and Krasmira came together.”

Seeing Hermione made Viktor feel like he’d been hit by a Bludger. His entire body flushed cold and then hot as the air was knocked out of him. 

The thing was, Viktor liked Hermione just how she looked on a normal day. She had brown hair that had lightened in the sun, and it sometimes shone with hints of red when the light hit it just right. Her eyes, a combination of shades of amber with streaks of gold like wheat, were expressive, and he often knew how she was feeling just by looking into them. He loved her hands too, because while small, they were always moving and doing something interesting, whether it was gesturing as she spoke, flipping pages of a book, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, or mixing up potions. 

Every part of her spoke to him in some small way, and he found himself appreciating different aspects of her—how she looked, how she moved, what she did and how she did it—every day. The Hermione in front of him was simply another side of her that he hadn’t seen before, one that made his mouth dry and his heart stutter. She was absolutely radiant. 

Her hair, lustrous under the light, hung in straight sheets almost to her waist with parts of it pinned back to her head. It shone against the soft fabric of her dress, which reminded him of the night sky right after dusk had set but before true darkness had set in. The cut was simple, yet somehow daring. It left her arms completely bare, her lightly tanned skin spanning all the way to her neck where the dress fastened around it before cascading down to the floor in a long, endless flow that swirled around her as she moved. Something about it changed as she came toward him, and he realized that the colour was incrementally shifting into a deeper shade of midnight blue even as the top lightened with a hint of red. It was, he understood suddenly, a snapshot of true dusk. 

As soon as she saw him all the way across the floor, Hermione smiled at him, her lips, which were painted a soft pink, tilting up as the edges and deepening the curves. It was that smile, a smile he felt he knew better than his own somehow, that made something shift into place in him with an almost audible click. 

Hermione Granger was it for him. 

Viktor had always been driven by passion for his people, and passion for his sport. Those two things had, above all, propelled him to want to be the best at what he was doing. However, since he had met Hermione, she engendered the same response as well. She made him want to be the best version of himself—to be the best at what he did, true, so it would impress her, but to also be a better person: kinder, more compassionate, smarter and harder working, so that when she looked at him, she saw someone that she would not want to look away from. Someone worthy to stand next to her and support her and someone  _ she _ would want to stand next to and support. 

Hermione was his snitch: golden, enticing, and just out of reach until he worked hard enough to catch it.

And catch it he would, he resolved.

######  The next time there was something like this, she would not walk in alone or with friends like Clara. No, the next time she walked in it would be on his arm, and her hand would burn like fire where it touched his, and she would smile up at him with that glittering look in her eyes she sometimes got, and nobody would be able to take him away from her. Not Islov, not Quickfoot, not Kosta, not his father, not anyone.

“Stop drooling.” Next time to him, Pyotr discreetly elbowed him and gave him a droll look. “People are going to notice.”

Casually, he slid his foot over and stepped on Pyotr’s loafer. The Beater yelped and moved away, glaring. “Ow! What the hell?”

“If you’re going to judge me for drooling, you had best stop with your moony calf eyes.” He lifted a brow meaningfully.

His friend, who was famous for his womanizing ways, sighed, shoulders slumping. “Is it really so obvious?”

“As obvious as I am, apparently.” 

Pyotr ran a hand over his face. “We are in so much trouble.”

He watched the crowd watch Hermione and Clara and—Merlin’s balls, that was  _ Krasmira _ next to them, clad in an absolutely daring dress of blood red silk. He swallowed, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the sight, although it seemed from the looks of other men in the crowd that he was the only one.

He cleared his throat, his mind temporarily distracted from his Hermione at the sight of the Healer. “Pyotr. Tell me I’m not seeing things. Is that—is that really  _ Kras _ ?”

Pyotr tore his gaze away from Clara, who was resplendent in some kind of silken forest green ensemble, and followed Viktor’s gaze. “ _ Govno, _ ” he breathed a moment later. “I feel—I feel...I don’t know how I feel right now, but I don’t like it.” He looked at Viktor. “I am going to pretend she is wearing her usual outfit and never look below her face again. I just—I can’t. That’s  _ Kras _ .”

He nodded quickly. “As far as I’m concerned, she’s wearing black robes buttoned up to her chin.” 

The crisis averted, they went back to mooning over their respective women, and Viktor watched as Hermione looked around, her eyes curious and a bit nervous. When she saw he was still watching her, her hand came up in a small wave and her smile brightened. Involuntarily, he felt himself smile as he raised a hand back. 

The smile fell off his face, though, as he spied who was standing on her other side. It was Quickfoot. The wizard looked resplendent in extremely well-fitting robes that showed his lean form off, the deep blue setting off the tawny highlights in his hair and complementing his eyes. The wizard stared at him from beneath hooded eyes, and though his wand never appeared in his hand, Viktor felt as though one were being pointed right at him. 

A beat later Quickfoot looked away, and the moment passed. 

“Well!” Pyotr said brightly next to him. “I’m going to go dance with our lovely little Mia since you seem to have no plans of your own aside from staring at her pathetically, and I’m too chicken to do so with Clara. I’ll call it a win in my book. Cheers!”

Before Viktor could so much as begin to formulate a response, Pyotr had swept off and was bowing over Hermione’s hand, a dazzling smile on his face. Introductions were made and many compliments were handed out—at Pyotr’s words, Hermione turned a shade of pink he could see from across the floor, and she darted a look at him only to turn away fast as a snitch when their eyes met. 

Moments later Pyotr had taken her out on the floor, his elegant form slightly bent over as to accommodate her height, and they were off, his long, tailored robes spinning around them and her long hair swinging out behind her as they turned and moved in sync. Absently, he noted she seemed more confident in her moves and resolved to mention to  _ Maika  _ that their practice had indeed paid off. 

He was forced to divert his attention shortly thereafter as players came up to talk to him and congratulate him on advancing to the semi-finals, but his eyes kept getting drawn back to her again and again. Most of the time she was laughing or smiling as she listened to others, the team having migrated to her at various points in twos and threes. 

At one point a tall, austere man with long platinum hair and a boy with similar but shorter hair approached her. She stiffened visibly enough that he knew she knew them—and that she wasn’t pleased to see them. Their exchange lasted only a few minutes before the man shallowly inclined his head as he said something to the boy and they departed. 

Seeing Hermione stare after them with a pensive expression, Viktor detached himself from the ongoing conversation and approached her, hoping to see what had put that look on her face. Tonight, he vowed, there should be no darkness in her eyes, which had become increasingly normal. Tonight, he would put the light there. 

As he drew up to her, his mouth grew dry. She was so pretty, and her hair...it was glorious. A cascade of browns and caramels that his hands itched to touch as it flowed down her back in a silken sheet.

“Mia.” He clicked his heels and bowed over her hand, which he had drawn into his own at some point without notice. He looked up into wide eyes. “You look...beautiful. Truly, I can’t describe your radiance.”

Her eyes, which had been lightly lined, went even wider, and then she blushed deeply, the pink spreading across her cheeks. “I, erm, well, thank you. You look quite dashing yourself,” she replied, her eyes darting to meet his before lowering to the floor. 

His compliments dispensed, he suddenly found himself at a loss of what to say, and it seemed she did as well, for there was a silence that drew out long enough to be uncomfortable. 

Mentally, he kicked himself. Viktor had faced down many a foe, and Hermione, stunning as she was, hardly qualified. She was just the girl he had spent much of the summer with, only in different clothes. 

Suddenly he felt much more at ease, his tongue untwisting as his stomach unclenched, and he asked, “Would you like to dance?  _ Maika _ would be so disappointed if she heard that we hadn’t.” He smirked. 

Her eyes crinkled at the corners. Dryly, she responded, “We would really be quite terrible if we put all our dancing practice to waste, wouldn’t we?” 

“Absolutely horrible,” he agreed.

He drew her out to the floor with the hand he had yet to let go of and placed it on his shoulder, his own coming to rest on her waist as he grabbed her other hand. “Shall we?”

“Don’t hate me if I step on your feet,” she warned. “I really still can’t quite get the hang of this.” Ruefully, she added, “Pyotr laughed at me.”

He bent over slightly and looked into her eyes. “I’m not Pyotr. Just trust me and listen to my body. I won’t let you fall.” It was a promise, and one he meant about far more than just dancing.

As soon as they started, she predictably stiffened up, her body moving woodenly. Gathering her closer, he murmured, “Trust me, Mia.” 

Her hand gripped his shoulder tighter, but a moment later she relaxed, her body melting into his hold, and they were off. He lost track of the time as they flew around the room in sweeping circles, the world narrowing in until it was only them. 

“Have you had a good time so far?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’m a little surprised, honestly. I really hate social gatherings, you see. I tend to avoid them like the plague because I’m not particularly skilled at making small talk, and I get nervous around people I don’t know very well. I almost didn’t come.”

“Really? Then what made you change your mind?”

“Clara,” she laughed. “She wouldn’t give up on me—she even took me dress shopping and helped me get ready. I don’t know what I would have done without her, honestly.”

He would have to buy Clara a bottle of her favorite wine for doing that.

Continuing, she added, “Everyone has been so delightful. Except, well….”

“What is it?” 

She paused, her expression that thoughtful one he had seen earlier. “There’s this boy from school, Draco Malfoy. He’s awful. Really, Viktor, he’s terrible. He always gets what he wants, and whenever he doesn’t, he runs to his father—he’s on the school board, you see—and complains.” She laughed suddenly, her face lighting up, and confided, “I punched him, actually.”

He couldn’t keep the disbelief off his face. “You what?”

Impishly, she repeated, “I punched him! He was being an absolute git about this thing—there was a hippogryff, and—well, it doesn’t really matter for this story, but suffice to say, my temper got the best of me and I hauled off and punched him in the face.”

He roared with laughter, and several people turned to look at them. Somewhere in the distance, several camera flashes went off. Ignoring the attention, he chuckled. “Ah, Mia, you never cease to amaze me. You, punching someone. I would never have thought—actually,” he reconsidered, “after the way we started out this summer, perhaps I could see it. Actually, I can see it very well. But a punch! Not even a spell. I bet it took him completely by surprise.”

She nodded emphatically. “So imagine my surprise when he was not only here, but here with his father, who also hates me—and they sought me out to say hello! I was expecting some nastiness, especially on Draco’s part, given some things he’s said to me about being a muggleborn and all—he’s a Pureblood—but it was strangely polite and I don’t know what to make of it. It was really quite bizarre, truthfully.”

Idly, he stored the information away in his mind. He was distantly aware of the Malfoys, given that they had several businesses that meshed with the Krum’s own businesses or were tangentially related. Perhaps he could speak to Kosta about the extent of their interactions and see precisely what leverage they had over them. 

Not to mention what he could do to the boy when he encountered him at Hogwarts come fall. There was something to be said about being famous and a powerful wizard in his own rights. He had his own arsenal to deploy. “You’ll tell me if he bothers you this evening, and I will set him straight.”

She squeezed his hand, her face soft. “You’re always looking out for me.”

Giving in to the urge that had possessed him since he first saw her, he stroked her hair from her neck down to her back. It was just as silky soft as he had thought. 

“Of course I am.” It was only natural. 

Shortly thereafter they took a break, and Hermione was drawn away from him by Alexei, who came to claim a dance with a look on his face that dared Viktor to say anything (which would, of course, incriminate himself and his feelings). He was not feeling nearly so brave and so kept mum, watching Alexei outrageously dip Hermione before they had even begun. She shrieked and swatted at him after he had safely placed her on her feet, and he grinned. 

“Enjoying your evening, I see.” Krasmira had come up next to him, the blood red silk clinging to her body and revealing curves he had not previously ever considered or would want to consider in the future. 

He tugged at the fall of his robes and stared resolutely at her face. “I am,” he admitted without hesitation. “Are you?”

She shrugged. “I always find gatherings like this objectively interesting but subjectively tedious. They’re interesting to watch, since so much typically happens, but often I find myself bored.”

He….didn’t quite know what to say in response to that. “I’m sorry?” He managed at last. 

Tilting her head, she surveyed him. “I wouldn’t be sorry. It’s been quite delightful to watch you and Mia circle around each other, both figuratively and literally, all evening.”

He felt himself flush a dull red and shifted uncomfortably. He’d only just figured things out himself this evening! Couldn’t a man have a moment to dwell on his feelings before having to air them publicly? “Well—I—she’s...she’s really very incredible.” 

Krasmira lifted a perfectly manicured brow. “Indeed she is. I’ve not met a girl like her in a long, long time. Her brain and willpower is truly formidable, but it’s her spirit that I like most. She is truly unique.”

Feeling suddenly unaccountably nervous, Viktor licked his lips. “Do you think...has she told you—”

“Krasmira, luv.” Smoothly, the Irish Seeker, Aidan Lynch, casually stepped up next to the witch, his auburn hair somehow matching the green and yellow plaid of his kilt. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Slowly, the Healer shifted her head so she could look up at him balefully. “Where else would I be, Mr Lynch?”

Lifting a brow, Lynch responded, “Ah, Mr Lynch now, is it? That’s an interesting change after what you were calling me in March.”

At that, Viktor felt his jaw drop. 

Idly, Krasmira looked at her fingernails. “Yes, well, that was...hm...unadvisable on my part.”

Lynch remained unoffended. “What I want to know,” he continued, “is why you didn’t even stay for a good brekkie. Had to leave rather quickly, did you?”

“I had work.”

“It was Sunday, luv. Even practices don’t happen on Sunday.” He took a step closer and gently uncrossed her arms, his hands sliding down until they captured her own. “I thought we had...something. That night before—don’t you remember? We sat by the lake and talked for  _ hours. _ ” His voice dropped to a low burr. “And then that night…And then nothing! You left before I even had a chance to wake up and try to convince you to stay.”

For the first time in his entire life, he saw Kramsira begin to lose her composure. She looked away from Lynch, her jaw working. “Aidan, it’s not...it wasn’t like that.”

Somehow, he moved even closer, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her cheek. “Wasn’t it? Remember how you held me close under the sheets, all warm and pressed up against me? I do.”

Viktor cleared his throat, feeling very much like he was intruding on something he did not particularly wish to know about. Krasmira and Aidan Lynch! It didn’t even bear thinking about. Of course, Quidditch was an unbearably incestuous sport across teams, and even within teams at times, but he did not want to overhear whatever else Aidan was about to say to woo his apparent lady-love back. 

“I’m going to go get something to drink,” he told the couple, pointing at the drink station furthest away from him. “Lynch, Krasmira.”

As if noticing him for the first time, Lynch looked up. “Ah, Krum,” he said pleasantly, as if he wasn’t progressively wrapping himself around the Bulgarian Healer right in front of his eyes. “Good to see you lad! I’ll see you on the pitch soon, eh? I’m determined to win, so be careful not to get in my way.”

Above Krasmira’s head he raised an eyebrow, and Viktor nodded as he got the underlying message.  _ Don’t bother coming back. _

“I don’t fraternize with bullies,” he heard Krasmira say loftily as he walked away, and he lost the tail end of Aidan’s reply as he responded, “How was that bullying? If ever a man...”

Well. He huffed a laugh despite himself. If he had ever had an idea of Krasmira as some kind of chaste nun, he had most certainly lost it tonight between her dress and the reluctantly received advances of one Aidan Lynch. 

Across the room, Clara was standing next to Hermione, and she caught his attention with a discreet hand signal as his eyes lingered on her companion. Bugging out her eyes and jabbing a finger in Krasmira’s direction, she mouthed,  _ What? _

He made a face and shrugged. Hell if he knew. 

Finally, he made it safely to the drinks table and grabbed a tumbler of whisky, sipping it and feeling it slide down his throat with a mild burn. For a few minutes, he was blessedly left on his own to observe and see the room, which was teeming with the teams and the select few who had purchased an invitation, interact. 

Although he observed the ebb and flow of conversations, he was more focused on what was happening internally. There was a tension within him that was unknown to him. He felt exhilarated yet terrified of the feelings that Hermione engendered within him. They weren’t familiar, weren’t comfortable. It felt as though, when he looked at her, as if he were about to face a dragon, but at the same time as if his dearest wish was within his grasp. She made things come into focus, made his mind clear and his heart sing, yet he wrestled with those feelings. 

How long had he felt this way and ignored it? The burn in his stomach and the lightness in his head were not symptoms of some sudden infatuation, but rather a slow burn that had chosen to ignite. How could he have missed the signs? And now, to feel so unsettled about someone so deeply ingrained in his life, right when he was about to play career defining matches...to have his emotions soar and plummet based on a glimpse of her expression across the room and his palms go clammy at the idea of tucking her in close to him again? 

The timing could not be less than ideal. 

And then...after the summer was over, she would go back from whence she had come. Back to Britain, with its tepid weather and bland food, and where the colour and heat of summer would be banked. How would she receive him when he came after her with the Durmstrang contingent? Would she be different than she was now after she was back amongst her family and friends? 

Could he take the risk of saying something when he didn’t know how she felt? Could his heart withstand a rejection? Was he brave enough? 

He didn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I have to say is that I compulsively edited this for so long (eight days) that my alpha essentially kicked my arse and told me to post it. Please excuse the tardiness: my OCD was in strong force.
> 
> Addtl. side note: If anyone has Masterclass, I strongly recommend Neil Gaiman's writing and storytelling course.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Five

The Ball had been a dizzying whirl of anxiety, awe, and fun all at once. She had been a mess of nerves even before she had gotten here, tied up in a tangle about her appearance, her lack of faith in her social aptitude, and her guilt about her letter to her parents and their response.

 _Dear Mother,_ she had written, then stopped for a very, very long while with her quill hovering over the parchment as she tried to figure out what to say. Finally, she settled on

_I hope this letter finds you both well. I have been hard at work learning the basic tenets of becoming a Healer (a magical doctor) under Mistress Lazarov, who is one of the foremost experts in her field. As I mentioned in some of my earlier letters, we work directly with one of the best sporting teams in the magical world to help them stay in prime shape as they prepare for the equivalent of the World Finals. I am writing to you today to tell you I feel that I cannot leave them at such a critical time in the qualification process—they have made it to the semi-finals—so I will be unable to meet you in France._

_However, I would not want you to think I have forgotten my duties or my obligations. I am attending a Ball in the next coming days and I hope to practice all the social etiquette I have learned at Bainbridge. There will be many celebrities and Purebloods (they are the magical world's equivalent to nobility) there, so it will be excellent practice for the next time I accompany you and Daddy. In preparation for this event, I have also obtained a custom-made dress and learned some spells to improve my appearance. I do hope to be able to send you a photo if possible so that you can tell me if the dress and hair-charm is adequate enough for me to use when I next go out in society with you._

_I am sending you all my love and hope you enjoy your time in France._

_Your loving daughter,_

_Hermione_

When Daddy had replied with a few pithy lines and a cheerful farewell, she had known Mother was mad since she couldn't even be fussed to reply. That had made Hermione spiral into a morass of guilt for not going once more, but her decision had been made and she had to stick to it. So she moved forward, her spirits low, and prepared for the Ball.

Thankfully, Hermione had had Clara to help her. The older witch had taken Hermione under her wing with alacrity after Hermione had approached her after practice one day, her stomach knotted and her fingers twisted tightly behind her back as she inquired if the Chaser would be available to help her with a hair charm.

"Will I help you with a hair charm?" the witch had repeated with a look of dawning delight. "My dear, _dear_ Mia, I will do _so much more_ than that."

Hermione had been hard pressed not to be alarmed as Clara started spouting things like _come at noon_ and _if my mother taught me anything, it's how to be a well-dressed witch_ and _I have an entire section of the loo dedicated to cosmetics, so if you don't have any, you don't have to worry one bit,_ but she nonetheless showed up at the time dictated and gamely presented herself to be preened and primped.

Honestly, she would be lying if she said she hadn't enjoyed it. Clara had chattered away about inconsequential things as she showed Hermione how to do things like apply eye colour with a wand and to strategically charm her hair to shine just so in the light. It had been...strange...doing something like this, considering she had never given much credence to the entire idea of getting ready since the canvas, so to speak, wasn't much to begin with. But with Clara's ministrations, and their easy conversation, Hermione could begin to understand, just a little, why Lavender and Parvati enjoyed doing it, especially when she ended up looking like she did: a beautiful, sophisticated version of herself that she hardly recognized.

She looked like someone her parents would be proud of.

Sirius's eyebrows had winged up when he met her and Clara in the foyer by the bank of portkey points. "Wow, Hermione. You look…"

"Less like a troll?"

He had leveled her with a look, those cornflower blue eyes of Magellan's glinting with disapproval. "No. I was going to say 'like a beautiful young lady'."

"Which you already are," Clara had added, frowning at Hermione. "A troll. Honestly. Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror?"

Yes, and she never liked what she saw. "It doesn't matter," she had dismissed before changing the subject. "Where's Mistress Lazarov?"

Clara had pursed her mouth, knowing exactly what Hermione was doing, but had it drop for the meantime. "I'm not sure. She should be here around now. It's not like we agreed to meet up before we went in, but she's typically extremely punctual so I would expect her to arrive any moment."

They hadn't had to wait long, and as soon as Krasmira had shown up they had swept off into the ballroom proper, Hermione squarely in the middle of the group. It had felt indescribably good to know that she wasn't some afterthought but was rather part of the party itself. Although she knew she couldn't hold a candle to Krasmira in her daring red dress or Clara in her classic evening gown, she felt like she could at least hold her own.

She had laughed and talked and enjoyed herself as the team came up to talk to her in twos and threes. They all complimented her and they talked about inconsequential things she knew enough about to talk comfortably about, like favorite places she had traveled and most exotic locations they had been to or what teams they all were on when the World Cup was not in session. As time passed and she failed to offend anyone with her comments (as she so easily seemed to do at Hogwarts), she felt her spine straighten and her confidence grow.

The evening had been full of unexpected events, such as the conversation with the Malfoys who had somehow gotten an invitation. Although, she considered wryly, she really should have expected to see them here. After all, it was an exclusive, international event. That alone screamed _Malfoy_ , and adding in what she knew about Draco's obsession with quidditch should've made their attendance a foregone conclusion.

What she would _never_ have expected was to have Mr Malfoy come up, a strangely sullen and quiet Draco in tow, and make the kind of tediously polite conversation that one made with acquaintances they were trying to cultivate a stronger relationship with. Thankfully, that absolutely shocking conversation lasted all of five minutes before it was over, leaving her confused and wondering at what the Malfoys, who were such avowed blood purists, could want with _her_.

It was a relief, really, to have such a strange event followed up by Viktor's expedient arrival. Truly, she didn't deserve such a loyal friend as the dark-haired wizard, who had come and danced with her afterwards in order to make certain she was all right. Her heart warmed as she thought of his eyes, so intent on her as he first tried to ascertain if the Malfoys had upset her and then as he carefully guided her around the floor.

Poor Sirius had come to get her shortly thereafter for a dance, giving a flamboyant bow as he extended his hand. "A dance, milady? Just one," he reassured her, "though I'm sure that it won't measure up to a dance with any of your famous boyfriends."

Rolling her eyes, she allowed him to pull her onto the floor. "Me? With one of them? Don't be ridiculous. That's almost laughable."

A hank of golden hair flopped down over one of his eyes as he smiled. Cryptically, he replied, "I wouldn't go that far," but left it at that, probably because she had accidentally elbowed him as she tried to turn in the wrong direction. His resulting yelp was quite undignified, and most of the dance was spent in pointed concentration so she didn't accidentally injure him any further.

It was as they came off the floor that an absolutely stunning woman with hair the color of sunbeams and lips the color of blood approached her and Sirius, her arm clasped around a man that looked distinctly similar to Viktor. Perhaps this was Viktor's brother and his wife?

"Hello, dear," the woman said, lips parting in a smile that did not convey an iota of warmth. "I saw you across the floor and I decided I simply _had_ to meet you. I've heard so much about you, you see."

Politely, Hermione returned her smile, though one of her hands fisted in the folds of her dress. Something about the woman made her feel on edge. Uncomfortable. "It's a pleasure to meet you, madam," she replied, inclining her head.

"I'm Svetlana Krum, Kosta's wife," she returned, her head tilted and her eyes fixed on Hermione. "So you're the little muggleborn girl apprenticing with Madam Lazarov, hm? Are you enjoying your time with the team? You've been spending an _awfully_ lot of time with my Viktor, haven't you?"

Bristling, but unsure what to make of the insinuations, Hermione nodded. "Yes, that's correct. I've been spending a lot of time with the _entire_ team, you see. They all tend to get hurt, so I have to patch them up and send them back out."

The man beside Madam Krum shifted before speaking for the first time. "Both Krasmira and Viktor speak highly of your healing skills. They say you helped heal Levski when he fell from his broom during the match with the Moroccans, and then Dimitrov during that scrimmage a few days ago?"

"Yes, I did. It was very rewarding to be trusted to assist in healing them. I have certainly learned a lot in the process," she murmured.

Svetlana threw her head back and laughed, the action baring the long line of her perfectly tanned throat. "Isn't she just precious?" she purred, looking at Sirius.

Next to her, Sirius remained relaxed, his tone even bordering on bored. "Indeed she is. She's helped me a time or two myself."

Svetlana arched a perfectly manicured brow. "And why on earth would you need Healing?" she asked, although her tone indicated that she knew exactly why and that it was some kind of _joke_ to even ask the question. "Have you been up to dangerous things, Mr Quickfoot?"

Hermione looked between the two of them, perplexed. Did they know each other as well as it sounded like they did? How were they even familiar with each other in the first place? Or perhaps she was just misreading things...

"Stop making it sound so questionable," Sirius responded, growing even more relaxed. He shifted his weight and slipped his hand into his pocket, the very picture of indolence. "I work with rare and dangerous artefacts," he explained to Kosta. "Sometimes they get the best of me."

If that was all that got the best of him, Hermione would eat her cloak. She'd healed his injuries, and most of them were inflicted by humans. It was too bad he didn't trust her enough to tell her the truth, she thought bitterly, but at least it was some small consolation that he gave the same lie to others.

Svetlana gave another practiced, tinkling laugh. "It sounds dangerous, Magellan. Have you always been such a thrill seeker?"

The distinctly flirtatious tone made Hermione shoot a look at Kosta, but he seemed indifferent to his wife. Well, that was all well and good then, she supposed, but it made her the only uncomfortable one in this conversation. She managed to murmur somewhat inarticulately about needing to refill her drink before slipping away from the group. Behind her, Svetlana archly commented about how innocent she was, and Sirius's reply was lost as she left earshot.

"Miss Granger," a voice called behind her, and she turned, seeing with surprise that it was Kosta, Viktor's brother, who had called after her. "Please," he said, "let me accompany you to the refreshments table."

Uncertain as to why he would be interested in talking to her in the first place but willing to spend some time with the man who was Viktor's brother, Hermione nodded. "Of course," she replied, and smiled a bit as he gallantly raised his arm for her to take. She neatly looped their arms and they set off across the room to a table laden with drinks.

"So," he said a moment later, once she had a glass of pumpkin juice and he a flute of champagne, "how have you been finding the last few months? I have heard all about your time with the team, but have you had a chance to enjoy Bulgaria proper?"

Had she? She thought for a moment. "Honestly, I have been so busy working with the team that I haven't had a lot of time to really explore, though I will say I've enjoyed going to the Square by myself and with different friends, like Clara or even Viktor. Besides that, I haven't had much of a chance to get out and explore, though Viktor did invite me to the Manor, if that counts."

"And the Festival," Kosta noted.

Hermione flushed, thinking of the misunderstanding that had occurred there. "Yes, that too." She paused, chewing on her lip as she thought furiously, and then looked up at him earnestly. "I wouldn't want—I don't want—you see, Mr Krum—"

"Please, call me Kosta."

"Kosta, then," she amended. "I certainly didn't mean for any misunderstandings to occur there. People just assumed—I don't want you to think I was trying to make anything happen—"

His face warmed, and he touched her arm. "Miss Granger," he said gently, "I wouldn't assume that of you at all. I know how the gossip rags work. The world of the upper echelons of society can be a dirty, false place where innocents are often slandered, and things are often taken out of context." He chuckled. "It's probably because nobody says what they mean, but you wouldn't know about that, would you?"

She frowned down at her pumpkin juice. "What do you mean by that?"

"Miss Granger—may I call you Mia, as my brother does? Mia, then. Mia, you are one of the most transparent people I have encountered in quite some time. It is quite refreshing, if I may say so, to see how you react and feel to everything that is occurring around you. Take, for example, your feelings regarding my wife, Svetlana."

The blood drained from her face as he gestured towards the statuesque woman. Mortified that she had been so transparent, she stammered, "I—I—I don't—"

"Relax, Mia," he soothed. "If I may be frank with you, I don't particularly like her much either. I find her rather vapid and vain, not to mention inconstant. Her only goal in life is to further herself and her position in society."

"Then, if you don't mind me asking, why did you marry her?"

Kosta took a sip of his champagne. "Politics. You see, her father is the head of one of the most prestigious herbology companies in Europe. He controls access to the freshest ingredients, and one of our family's largest companies is a potions company. In order to secure the best products to make our own, we agreed upon a merger. We get the ingredients, and they get to attach themselves to the Krum name."

That was rather mercenary. "That's...good, I suppose?"

"That's Pureblood business, my dear. Now, Vitya…Viktor has followed his own path, as he ever does."

Both envy and….wistfulness? warred in Kosta's expression as he turned to look at her directly. "As the second son, he is more free to do as he pleases and marry whomever he wishes—within reason, of course, and provided that our father has not secured some kind of betrothal contract to strengthen the family. Furthermore, he is, and will be, the steward of our not inconsiderable property, and with that comes the attendant responsibilities."

"So I've seen." She thought back on the way the people had interacted with and viewed Viktor almost reverently and how he had responded in kind. It was clear that he had felt an immense responsibility to all the people that made their lives on the Krum estate, from the people who lived there to the people who worked in the fields and in the towns.

It had been humbling to see him in that setting, so serious as he carried out his duties while being so loved and beloved. "He takes it very seriously."

Kosta smiled. Though his face was a bit narrower and longer than Viktor's and his hair was pulled back into a queue, the way his lips curled at the edges were all Viktor. The sight of it made her instinctively smile back.

"I know he does," he replied. "My brother and I used to be very close, but as we've grown older, other…responsibilities and beliefs have drawn us apart. It is unfortunate that our relationship resembles very little what it used to." His mouth pulled down at a corner as he watched Viktor talking animatedly with a few players from different teams, gesturing as the others nodded.

Hermione was intimately acquainted with the feeling of wanting to be closer to those she loved but being separated by an insurmountable distance that couldn't be bridged. _Your mother was quite disappointed to receive your letter,_ ma cher _, but I think you should enjoy yourself while you still can._

"You could always reach out to him?" she ventured cautiously, her father's words fresh in her mind. "I...struggle to connect with my muggle parents, who are, hm, rather like Purebloods themselves. They are far too important and busy to spend time with me because of their responsibilities, and it doesn't help that I am now involved in a world that they can't access. But I love them all the same, though our obligations seem to be keeping us apart rather than drawing us closer together."

Kosta turned more fully towards her, his eyes inquisitive. "It is interesting how you can speak so familiarly to a situation such as mine when you are muggleborn. You mentioned your parents are like Purebloods but I fail to see how that is possible, unless they are of some superior rank or class themselves?"

Hermione flushed. A _faux pas_ and on a subject she had been so careful to conceal for so many reasons, especially in Britain. If word got out she was her parents' daughter, not just a regular, middle class muggleborn like all the others, she'd be even more ostracized by others for 'giving off airs' or thinking herself 'superior' because of her birth. She'd been through that before when she'd been in under prep, and she had never wished to go through it again.

But this was a Bulgarian Pureblood, and this was Kosta, Viktor's brother. Surely, if she told just him, it would be okay.

"Would you...keep this between us?" she asked, lowering her voice.

Leaning in, Kosta nodded solemnly. "My word as a Krum, my dear. I won't tell a soul outside of the family."

Her heart picked up speed and she fisted her hand in the fold of her dress for a moment. "Well, you see," she took a deep breath and confessed, "my family...we're nobility."

Her apprehension at how Kosta would react was cut off at the knees as he barely blinked at her pronouncement. "How intriguing, though I suppose it explains your pristine manners." At her look of surprise, he said offhandedly, "Mother told me about you."

She did? Why would Milena have done something like that?

Also food for thought, but at a later time. Forging on ahead, she said, "Regardless, I thought telling you that might show you that I can understand the dynamics, perhaps just a little bit, within the family that result from the roles you all have to play. However, I don't have a sibling, and I wish I did. Truly, Kosta, you're incredibly lucky to have Viktor. He always tries his hardest to fulfill his duties and obligations, whatever those may be. I've seen it myself this summer at the Festival of Blessings."

Kosta nodded. "I heard you went."

"Yes," she said simply, "I did, and I watched him drain himself to the point that he needed help getting back home. He has an intense sense of duty to the family and to the people whose livelihoods depend on your lands and even your magic." She paused, considering, then added, "It's inspiring to me, watching him. I wish things were as straightforward for me as they seem to be for him."

Her feelings were a tangled, jumbled mess, all tied around her parents and years of loneliness coupled with expectations she never quite seemed to reach.

"You seem to admire him."

Simply, she said, "I do. I admire a lot of things about him, and I think if you took the time to talk to him that you would also find there is a lot to admire. Did you know he wants to be a Weather Wizard?"

Viktor's brother looked first surprised and then thoughtful. "Does he?"

She nodded. "Yes. He thinks he can better help the estate if he has that knowledge. And while he does love Quidditch—loves it very much—I think if you listened hard and looked deep that you would find he loves the family and the land more."

He looked a bit shaken, his eyes narrowed yet thoughtful. Slowly, he told her, "I thank you for the insight and for sharing your own familial history. You have given me a lot to think on. Perhaps it is time I should shift my priorities a bit. I fear my father has had a rather large influence on me, and he is the most mercenary of us all."

Hermione thought of her own mother and how she had been willing to do almost anything to satisfy Helen Granger and felt a keen sense of empathy for Kosta.

"Like Viktor," Kosta continued, "I feel the burden of obligation and responsibility to maintain our family's reputation, standing, and prosperity. My arena is simply different than his, and my, hm, playbook, let's say, is correspondingly different."

"Have you ever just talked to him about it? I've found Viktor to be quite a good listener if given the chance. Most people discount him as some kind of moronic quidditch player with nothing between his ears, but he really is so much more than that."

He paused in the middle of taking a sip of his champagne and really seemed to see her for the first time. "Mother was right," he murmured, sighing. "She always is."

Wait. Right about what, exactly?

Kosta set down his glass on a nearby table and looked over at Viktor, who was listening intently to a woman in a bright tangerine dress that made her dark skin glow. "Would you mind excusing me, Mia? I think that I would like to go talk to my brother."

Biting her lip so as not to break into a wide grin, she nodded. "Of course! Not at all. By all means, please."

He bowed slightly before cutting through the crowd like one of her scalpels cut through potions ingredients. She watched with bated breath as he approached Viktor but then exhaled as he was waylaid by an elegant witch wearing a plum-coloured sari edged with gold. At the woman's intense look and accompanying words, Kosta nodded. Moments later, the two of them migrated out of the main ballroom, heads bent in a rather serious discussion.

"Well," she muttered, disappointment spearing her heart, "there went _that._ "

It was frustrating to see that the intense and rather emotionally involved conversation they had just had was so easily derailed, but she had to hope that Kosta had learned something from their discussion. If the two of them would just communicate, they might be able to mend, or at the very least improve, their relationship.

Unfortunately, she didn't think her situation with her parents was so easily solved. These days, they seemed worlds apart—both literally and figuratively—with barriers between them that grew increasingly insurmountable.

Speaking of her parents, Hermione thought as she looked out over the elegantly appointed crowd, they would be better suited to a party like this than she was. The two of them would be able to mingle easily and dance beautifully. She had watched it her whole life from a distance when she had been brought along, content to watch as they dominated the scene effortlessly.

She was not as lucky to have such acumen as them. Just as she did at muggle gatherings, she observed the rest of the party from the sidelines, content to stand by a wall and observe the comings and goings of people from all over the world as drinks were consumed and the party got progressively louder as the night wore on. Slowly, people were shedding the layers of formality, in some cases literally. Jackets were coming off, high heels were being discarded, and the formal band had been replaced by a much livelier modern band that had people doing all sorts of strange things on the floor that she had not ever quite seen before. Some of them—she blanched—some of them were things she did not particularly wish to see. Ever.

On that thought, she grabbed a new glass of pumpkin juice and set out for the outside terrace, which opened up to the beach. It was quite nice outside, the breeze not too cool but light and refreshing. Not many people were out there, and her shoulders unwound as she listened to the sound of the waves coming in.

The evening had been such a whirlwind. She had talked to so many people, experienced so many things...the chances of her making a misstep were so much higher now that she had the opportunity to trip up.

"Mia?" She started in surprise as Pyotr came up beside her, his hands shoved in his pockets and an unusually subdued expression on his face. "Fancy seeing you here. Enjoying the evening?"

She paused for a moment, searching through the tangle of her feelings. Finally, she settled on saying, "It's certainly been a night unlike any other one I've ever had."

Pyotr cast a sidelong look at her, the light from the ballroom inside partially casting his face into shadow. "I suppose that's one way to put it. It's beginning to grow a bit lively in there. I do think the competitive spirit is out in full force now that the Nicaraguans challenged the Koreans so baldly." He looked thoughtful. "I never knew they would be so...enthusiastic."

If there was one thing she would never understand this summer, it would be the Quidditch teams' strange obsession with the dance competition.

Casting about for something to say, she offered, "I suppose it makes sense given how competitive you all are. It's just another kind of match."

Pyotr waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, it's not that. It's just...the _Koreans_? I never knew they had it in them!"

She shrugged, unsure what to say, and tried to think of another conversational topic that they could both enjoy. "Everyone looks very nice tonight, don't they? I think Clara in particular looks rather lovely, doesn't she?"

Pyotr, who had been looking out over the dark water, looked at her askance before groaning and lifting a hand to cover his face. "You as well?"

She giggled. "I saw how you looked at her when we came down the stairs. You really like her, don't you?" Only once the words had escaped did she realize what she'd said, and she winced. She hadn't meant to say that last bit.

Pyotr blanched and then sagged, his shoulders slumping. "Is it so obvious that even you can see it? Clara…" He shook his head. "She's amazing. You see it too. I know you do. There's something about her that draws people, something...bright. Something pure. Something special."

His expression, normally so animated, softened and stilled as he continued, "I have loved her for a long, long time. Years, actually, since I went head over arse for her when we were on our first team together." He sighed, the sound resigned. "She won't have anything to do with me. Says we're better off as friends. We've even argued about it, most recently before the last game."

She hesitated, biting her lip. Clara had always seemed friendly with Pyotr, but she was often the same way with most everyone else. However, with Pyotr, she lit up in a way she didn't with others. There was something different about her when she was with him and he was with her, some extra element Hermione couldn't define. They made each other better. Made each other _more_ in some undefinable way.

"I know it's not my place," she began haltingly, "but it could be, that, well...she may think she would become another one of your, erm...lady friends."

Her cheeks darkened even at the thought of mentioning Pyotr's many well-documented dalliances, but she forged ahead. "There's this boy in my school, you see. His name is Anthony Goldstein. He's wicked smart and very handsome, but he knows it and he uses it. If I were best friends with him and he told me he wanted to go to Hosgemeade—to go on a date," she corrected herself as she realized Pyotr wouldn't know what that meant, "I would be very hesitant because I wouldn't be sure of his motivations."

"Even though you're best friends?" Pyotr asked, brows uncharacteristically furrowed. "Shouldn't you know him well enough to know that he wouldn't do something like that?"

"I think…." She thought for a moment, chewing on her lip, "I think that I would see his actions as more indicative of what he truly means. If he was serious about me, I would have expected him to stop messing around with other girls and to make it clear that he wanted me and only me. I mean, hypothetically of course!" she rushed to add. "I really hardly know Anthony, and my two _real_ best friends, Harry and Ron? They're like my brothers."

She grimaced at the thought of dating either of them. She loved them dearly, but they weren't exactly her idea of the ideal boyfriend. Suddenly, an image of warm dark eyes and short black hair flashed through her mind, and she frowned before pushing it away.

Pyotr crossed his arms, mulling over her words. "You know," he said at last, "I would never have thought that I would be taking advice from a teenage girl, let alone any woman, but I think that actually has merit." Quick as a flash he reached over and tugged on her hair, something all the players had taken to doing as some kind of good luck charm. "Thanks, Mia."

"You're welcome," she said tetchily as she neatened her hair, "although I would appreciate if you all would _stop_ messing with my hair!"

He laughed. "Not a chance, sweetheart. Not a chance. Oh, and Mia?"

"Yes?"

"About that scenario with you dating one of your best friends...would it be so bad, if one of them asked?"

Bewildered, she frowned. "Harry and Ron are like brothers, just like I said."

He shook his head. "Another best friend. I think—" He cut himself off and smiled ruefully. "It's not my place. Never mind."

Her eyebrows furrowed, she replied, "If you say so."

Pyotr shrugged and extended his arm so that she could take it. "Enough talk. Would you care for another dance so we can give a good showing? I think this time we could get through it with you only injuring me once!"

The comment stung at first as she thought he was slyly commenting on her lack of grace, but as she searched his expression, it became clear he was only joking. Besides, it was only Pyotr. He had never, not once, been cruel.

"Hm," she said doubtfully, trying to match his light tone, "those are awfully high expectations, but I'll see what I can do. After all, we must _do it for Bulgaria_." She mimicked Islov's militant style at the end, and Pyotr barked a laugh.

"Ah, Mia," he told her fondly, "I'm so glad you've joined us this summer."

"Me too," she replied thoughtlessly, her heart soaring as Vasily, Alexei, and Clara gave them encouraging thumbs up across the ballroom as they took their place on the floor. "Me too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank you all for your comments! They make my day and encourage me to keep writing :)
> 
> As a heads up, I will not be posting next Friday as usual due to the fact that is Christmas day. I will likely post either earlier or later in the week.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Six

_**A TALE OF TWO KRUMS?** _

_Rita Skeeter, Society Sensations_

_My dear readers, as we were all aware, the ever-famous (perhaps we should say infamous?) Quidditch World Cup Ball took place yesterday, and what a Ball it was! With representatives from all teams across the world and glittering celebrities and socialites attending, the Ball was sure to be a major success even from the outset. The Ball is known for its propensity to become rather wild (see pages 6A-C, 7B, and 10-14 for a breakdown of the wildest events of the evening), but I would like to draw your attention to a rather small, but perhaps even more delicious, sequence of events that took place against the glittering backdrop._

_As you may recall, I first brought to light the burgeoning romance between Bulgarian Bon Bon Viktor Krum and Miss Granger, our own English Rose. The relationship, which seemed rather new at the time, seemed sweet. However, my dear readers, what I spied happening with my very own eyes last night seemed to indicate that the romance could be headed towards rather murky waters due in large part to Miss Granger, who seems determined to capture the heart of not only our favourite prodigal Seeker but also that of his older brother and heir to the Krum dynasty, Kosta Krum._

_Mr Krum, who is married to Svetlana of the Vabrachakas, was seen last night in a rather_ _ **cozy**_ _tête-à-tête_ _with Miss Granger while their significant others were left to their own devices (pictured on left). One must wonder what was said between the two, because the elder Krum departed the conversation and seemed rather determined to confront his brother before he was waylaid midway. I later one espied young Krum and his beaux swirling around the dance floor while the elder Krum looked on jealously (pictured on right), which only further cemented my belief that this unusual love triangle must exist._

_Is there trouble brewing between these three? Will Mr Krum's performance in the upcoming Quidditch World Cup be affected by the mercurial tides of love that the Seeker seems to be experiencing?_

_**An expert Arithmancer does the math on how this surprising new addition changes the odds on the outcome of the QWC! See page 2 below the fold.** _

_Editor's Note: This article was originally run in England's_ Daily Prophet _but was picked up by Society Sensations International for our biweekly Quidditch Personalities special edition prints, where we track the comings and goings of our favorite players as they prepare for the biggest matches of their lives. To subscribe, kindly send an owl form to our office at 1353 Rue de Soleil._

Islov placed the paper down on his desk and looked at Viktor. "Well?"

"It's all rubbish and you know that." Viktor really didn't see the problem. He'd had worse written about him. "You know how the tabloids are. They always have some strange propensity for reporting both salacious, malicious, and overall untrue 'facts'. This Skeeter woman is just another example. You and I both know there's usually no basis in these kinds of articles, so why did you call me in here to discuss it?"

Sighing, Islov ran a hand over his face. "I know that they're typically untrue, and I don't particularly care about the contents of the article one way or another. The fundamental issue remains, however, that Miss Granger has become a distraction for you, and as I told you a few weeks ago that if she became too much of one, I would have to do something about it."

He stood up and placed his hands on the desk, leaning forward. "Viktor, you are one match away from being able to play at the pinnacle of your profession. The Cup isn't something that comes around often, like the European League. It's every four years, and players who win are guaranteed a successful career for the rest of their athletic lives. This can make you — it _will_ make you. And to have your head turned by some slip of an English girl?" He shook his head. "It's unacceptable. I will not permit the linchpin of this team to be distracted. She has to go."

Viktor stared in disbelief at the head of the team. "You can't just sack her because of a few tabloid articles."

"Weren't you listening? I'm not sacking her because of the articles. I'm sacking her because of you." The older wizard rounded his desk and walked towards the door. "I told you weeks ago — if she made you lose your focus, I would have to do something about it. She did, and here we are."

Viktor followed him out of the office and down the hall as Islov strode down it. "This is a complete overreaction," he argued. "Mia and I are just friends —" though perhaps that could possibly change, if he was lucky "—and she has been nothing but a positive addition to my life. Has my behaviour changed at all since we became friends? Has my performance worsened?"

Islov's stride didn't break. "It doesn't matter. I've made my choice."

Nothing Viktor could say would dissuade him from his path. He'd seen Islov like this before, and nothing short of a hippogryff attacking could move him. That didn't stop him from trying, and he was still arguing with him when they made it through the doors of the Healing Hall.

Krasmira and Hermione were in the midst of a heated debate, standing close together as Hermione pointed at something in one tome while Krasmira had three separate scrolls and a chalkboard with some kind of equation written on it hanging in the air.

"If you start with nought point zero four percent titration," Hermione was arguing, "it affects the viscosity of the other two ingredients in the mixture. What I'm advocating for is the use of a black iron cauldron to help offset those. Kierkgaard says—"

Krasmira, who was looking rather less put together than usual, her dark hair hanging in a loose braid rather than its chignon and with dark circles under her eyes, scoffed. "Kierkgaard has the common sense of a pygmy puff! Where did you even get his text? He's positively medieval!"

"Krasmira," Islov announced, "we need to talk. Now."

Islov's pronouncement was roundly ignored by both of them as the two witches locked eyes.

Mulishly, Hermione continued, "The burn paste would be two point seven percent more effective if you used the black iron. Look here." She cleaned the chalkboard and began scribbling. "Here's the base equation, right? And then we have—"

Islov barked, "Krasmira!"

In unison, both Healer and apprentice looked up at him, the former appearing unimpressed while the other looked owl-eyed.

"What, Boris?" Krasmira asked tetchily. "I don't see anyone injured, so would you just go away? Can't you see we're in the middle of something?"

"Can't do that." He folded his arms. "It's about Granger. She's got to go."

Krasmira frowned at Hermione. "Do you have an appointment or something that you forgot to tell me about?" Viktor's witch shook her head, and Krasmira looked at Islov. "You saw her. She's not going anywhere."

"Not for the day," Islov ground out. "For good."

Krasmira very, very slowly turned to look at Islov. Even though her scarily calm expression wasn't directed at him, Viktor felt his blood turn to ice. "Don't be ridiculous. Hermione isn't going anywhere."

"I'm saying she is."

Krasmira's expression morphed into that of one dealing with a moron. "And _I'm_ saying she's not. She's _my_ apprentice, and she works in _my_ infirmary."

"And she's affecting _my_ player's performance!"

Krasmira's gaze snapped to him, and he felt himself rear back a little at the ferocity in her eyes. "Don't look at me," he responded reflexively, his hands coming up. "I argued against it."

The Haler rolled her eyes and switched back to Islov. "So you're being bullheaded, is it? Figures. Boris, stop before you do something stupid. Let me put it like this: if Hermione goes, I go, and you won't have _any_ Healers for the match in three days. Now get out of my infirmary before I _accidentally_ hex you." That done, she turned to Hermione and continued their conversation.

Islov stared at the Healer for a long moment before turning on his heel and leaving the Hall, his stride heavy. Hermione looked at Viktor for a moment, arching a brow in question, and he shrugged, spreading his hands as if to say _I have no idea_.

"Mia. Stop doing your little silent telepathy thing with Viktor and listen to me." Krasmira rapped the top of Hermione's book with her knuckles, and her attention shot back to her mentor. It seemed Krasmira was grouchy with everyone today.

He spared a moment to wonder if her encounter with Aidan Lynch had anything to do with her attitude as he slipped out of the infirmary and made his way out to the field. Islov hadn't come out yet, and Viktor now had an agenda that was best implemented before their coach got out on the field.

Islov had another thing coming if he thought he could throw Hermione away like she was rubbish.

When he got there, most of the players were still stretching since the day hadn't yet started. Joining them on the ground, he reached towards his toes to begin stretching out his calves and hamstrings.

"You're a little later than usual," Vasily commented as he pulled an arm across his chest. "Late night last night?"

"You'd think," he replied, "but I was just held up. Islov called me into the office."

Alexei whistled. "What did you do?"

"Apparently I got involved in some kind of love triangle with Kosta and Mia." He let his tone convey his opinions about that.

Clara choked on a laugh. "A _what_?" she wheezed. "With Kosta? He's like, what, thirty?"

Pyotr twisted to face them, his eyes dancing. "I didn't know your brother was a cradle robber, Viktor."

Viktor rolled his eyes. "He's not. Regardless, it wasn't about that. Islov thinks that Mia is, and I quote, 'distracting' me." He used inverted quotes.

Vasily roared with laughter. "I haven't seen you play so well in the past two months since she came. Distracting you? Ha! More like motivating you."

Wiggling his eyebrows, Pyotr said, "Here on the Bulgarian Quidditch Team, we like to impress the ladies with our skills, not our brains."

Clara smirked. "That's not true. Our little Vitya has been studying with her at lunch time. Isn't it just precious?"

"Hey!" He felt compelled to defend himself, though his cheeks were burning. "I have to study to retain my marks next year, especially if I want to get an apprenticeship at some point."

"An apprenticeship in _love_." Vasily oozed innuendo.

Clara reached over and slapped him on the side of the head. "Don't even imply things about my Mia that way, you lech."

Vasily rubbed his head. "Hey, she's not your Mia. She's _our_ Mia. She healed _my_ wrist." He patted his chest. "Can you say the same? No? Didn't think so. So actually, she's more _my_ Mia than your Mia."

"Okay, no." Clara held up a finger. "I helped her at the team lunch, and I took her to get her dress, _and_ I helped her get ready for the ball. She's mine, too."

"I'm the first one she healed," Alexei put in, "so actually I'm her first, which means I'm her best. She's definitely mine."

"Islov tried to sack her." Viktor's quiet statement caught the entire team off guard, and simultaneously everyone swung around to stare at him with varying expressions of shock and incredulity.

"What?" Even Zograf was surprised. The Keeper was normally unflappable. "Because of the article?"

He nodded, feeling increasingly miserable the more he thought about it. The idea that he could have contributed to Mia's potential sacking made his stomach curdle. "Not only because of the article, but I think it was a tipping point. He thinks she's distracting me and wants me to be focused, although I don't know what I could have done to show that I'm being distracted. Has my playing noticeably worsened? Do I seem distracted?"

Alexei frowned thoughtfully. "I really don't think so. Perhaps off the pitch I can see you looking a little moony sometimes, but otherwise, I really haven't noticed any kind of impact on the pitch. You're as focused as ever."

"And even if you were distracted," Pyotr added, looking serious for once, "I wouldn't lay that guilt on Mia's feet. She hasn't, not one time, ever tried to distract us from our playing. Not Viktor, not me, not any of us. She's really been quite a nice addition, to be frank. It's been refreshing to talk to her and have her there in the infirmary. Even though she's young, she's really quite mature for her age and has a wonderful bedside manner. Much better than Kras."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Kras is part dragon, Pyotr. Anyone would have a better bedside manner than her. But I do agree. Mia feels like a little sister to me sometimes. But even more than that, she feels kind of like our mascot. She's always there to cheer us on and wish us the best. I, for one, would be very upset if Islov decided to sack her." She paused. " _Can_ he sack her?"

A small smirk made its way onto Viktor's lips. "Not according to Krasmira, no."

Suddenly intent, Alexei grabbed his shoulder. "Were you there to witness that? Did he confront Krasmira?" He chuckled. "Islov versus Krasmira. What a match up!"

Viktor looked at him sidelong, a smirk curling his lips. "It wasn't much of a match at all in my opinion." He recounted the brief encounter between the two and the team was left speculating what would happen between the two now that Islov had pissed her off.

"But seriously," Vasily shook his head as they came back to the original topic at hand, "I don't know what he was thinking. It wasn't even a good idea to begin with given that she hasn't done a damn thing to deserve it. I think he got what was coming to him."

All around him, the team made varying sounds of agreement, and they all stared at Islov with varying degrees of disapproval when he finally showed up, a displeased expression on his face. "Don't you even start on me," he snapped. "I am the coach of this team, and I make the decisions."

"Mia's like the team puppy," Vasily piped up, "and we don't kick puppies."

"I feel like she's our good luck charm." Even Ivan, who hardly ever spoke, weighed in. "We haven't lost since she started. I don't want to change a thing, not now that we're so close to making it."

Alexei, one of the more superstitious on the team, blanched. "I hadn't even thought of it that way. Yes, we absolutely cannot get rid of Mia. Getting rid of someone for no good reason would be _losh kŭsmet._ It could ruin us."

Aggrieved, Islov snarled, "No more talk of Mia. She's staying. Now suit up and get on your brooms. We have a lot to get done today."

Resisting a triumphant expression, Viktor calmly strapped on his goggles and summoned his broom, throwing a leg over and ascending to hoop height. Clara flew up next to him and companionably kicked his foot with her own.

"Good job, Vitya," she told him, her eyes solemn. "Islov has his heart in the right place most of the time, but I think he underestimated our regard for the little English Rose. He'll have a lot of angry players on his hands if he continues to try and get rid of her, especially now that Ivan brought up luck and superstition."

He nodded, feeling as though he had done what he could without putting himself directly in Islov's crosshairs. Now that the team was aware, they could help him protect Hermione if Islov decided to arbitrarily target her again. He doubted it would happen again, but he couldn't be sure, especially since Islov seemed so eager to go after her without a truly substantiated reason.

The thought made his stomach sink. If Islov was this upset about an article, what would he do if Viktor asked to court Hermione and she accepted him? He didn't doubt that Islov would be able to find a way to get rid of her should he really, truly desire to, and he wanted nothing less than to cut Hermione's time here short because he wasn't able to wait a bit longer.

He sighed, his shoulders sinking. It seemed it would be best to wait until after the season was over to say anything. Hermione's time here would be safe, then. Well, at least safe from the damage that potential landmine could cause. If he wasn't who he was, then...but he was. So this was how it had to be.

Practice was even more brutal than usual. Viktor attributed it to Islov's bad temper, and when they broke for lunch they were all winded and sweaty. "Lunch in town?" Vasily suggested, and the rest of the team agreed, unwilling to stick around when Islov was in such a mood.

"I'll go grab the puppy," Vasily said, and even Zograf cracked a smile at that. The Chaser apparated to the one-way window on the far end of the pitch and was let in moments later.

Scant minutes later twin cracks heralded the appearance of not only Vasily but also Krasmira, who stood next to a subdued Hermione. It seemed the entire team had gathered to show her their support, and all throughout lunch, they made a point to show her in various ways that she was one of them. Vasily even cracked a joke about her being the team mascot, and when she smiled for the first time in response, it felt like the entire team released a deep breath of relief. Even Krasmira's shoulders dropped the slightest bit.

The young witch, who had quietly sat on Viktor's left side during lunch, slowly bloomed to life under their reassurances. As she finally began to eat, he nudged her with his arm even as he put another hunk of bread on her plate.

"Okay?" he asked as he bent his head toward her, his voice low enough that only she would hear it.

She nodded almost imperceptibly. "I'm fine," she replied, though her voice was still muted.

Searching her expression for signs up upset but unable to see anything overtly wrong, he at last turned to Vasily, who was discussing the potential of using a Byzantine Block during the upcoming match.

When she gently nudged his foot under the table a few minutes later with her own, he smiled into his soup. His witch would get past this, especially now that she'd seen how much support she had. He'd make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays to you all! For those who celebrate Christmas - Merry Christmas; for those of you who don't, I hope you had a fantastic day.
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful reviews last chapter: they were great Christmas gifts :)
> 
> Oh, and for those of you looking for a quick holiday one-shot, I just posted short a Cedric/Hermione fic!


	30. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Very brief, non-explicit discussion of domestic violence toward a child that occurs off screen.

She'd almost gotten sacked.

She'd almost gotten _sacked_.

Sacked from her _first_ job, her _only_ job so far, and she'd almost gotten sacked.

She was an absolute failure.

But how was she supposed to know that talking to someone was grounds for dismissal? She hadn't understood that, still didn't particularly understand it, really, but it didn't mean that she hadn't almost gotten the boot for it.

She should have been more careful at the Ball. Daddy had once gotten really angry once about something printed in the paper, and Mother had told him that _all they did was_ _print rubbish that sold to the masses._ Daddy had slammed his cup down on the table, his normally easy-going expression replaced with something twisted and mean, and snarled that _it didn't really matter if it was true or not because everyone who read the damn thing took it as fact_.

Hermione had never really understood the power behind the publically printed word until now, and she heartily sympathized with Daddy now that she'd had firsthand experience.

The clock on the wall struck the hour, and dread curled in her stomach. It was time to go to work.

What if she got there and Islov had convinced Krasmira to fire her? He'd almost done it yesterday. And she knew, no matter what the team said or how supportive they were, that they didn't have the ultimate say over who stayed or went. It was comforting, of course, to hear that they thought she added something to the team, but something like that wouldn't sway someone like Islov, who was focussed on results.

But didn't Islov have a point, really? The team had taken the time to ask her to lunch to cheer her up. Wasn't that almost definitionally distracting them from their jobs?

Hermione bit her lip. She had to stop being distracting. She'd do whatever it took to make sure that her behaviour was above reproach. She'd be the most – the _utmost –_ the _consummate_ professional. Nobody would ever so much as think about her conduct again because she'd be the best apprentice ever. The perfect apprentice.

Her hands balled at her sides as she checked the clock again. Ten after seven. Well. There was no use for it. She'd have to go and face it, whatever it was.

Krasmira took one look at her face when she arrived and sighed. "It's just like the beginning of the summer."

Hermione bit her lip again, tasting copper as her teeth broke the skin. "I'm sorry about yesterday, Mistress, really, I am."

"Sorry for what?" Krasmira folded her arms. "For going to the Ball? For having a good time? For having the audacity to smile as you danced with your friend and for talking with his elder brother? What, Hermione? What are you sorry for?"

In the face of Krasmira's exasperation, she was taken aback. "I...for creating such a problem that Islov almost sacked me? I caused so many problems yesterday," she fretted. "First Islov, then distracting the team, and then Islov was mad at Viktor—"

"None of that was your fault," Krasmira cut in. "People will react to your actions. How they react is their prerogative, not yours. You can't control what other people say, think, or do. You can only control what you do."

"So...I should be perfect."

Krasmira's sigh was even longer this time as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "No," she said with awful patience, "that is not what I was saying. Look at me, Hermione. No," she snapped when Hermione wasn't quite able to manage it, " _look at me."_

Unable to refuse a direct command, Hermione slowly dragged her eyes up from the floor to meet the Healer's striking amber eyes. Making sure Hermione was watching, Krasmira enunciated every single word as she said, "You are _not._ Going. To. Get. Sacked. The only person who can sack you is me, and I'm telling you that you're not going anywhere. You're my apprentice. You belong to me. Can I be any clearer?"

If Hermione's lip wobbled a bit before she firmed it up, nobody commented on it. "Yes." She nodded. "Yes, Mistress. I understand."

Krasmira's reassurance meant a lot to her. While she still felt like she needed to be on her best behaviour, the Healer's stern lecture did take some of the edge off. Hermione hadn't been perfect, but she hadn't been cast out. She had made a mistake, and she had...survived. Krasmira still wanted her, and so did her...friends. Her _friends_.

Her eyes dampened at the thought. She had friends, and she had a Mistress. They cared for her.

Krasmira put her to work preparing for the pre-match wellness checks, and the morning passed quickly. During lunch, Hermione caught up a copy of the paper, which had been left in the dining hall, and skimmed the article again, her eyes snagging on the moving photo of her and Viktor dancing together, his head thrown back in laughter as she grinned up at him.

If she had seen only that image, she thought, perhaps the idea that they were somehow romantically engaged wouldn't seem so preposterous. However, the reality of it was that they were most certainly not a couple, and Skeeter's false accusations and presumptions had gotten Hermione in a lot of trouble.

Honestly, that Skeeter woman should be sued for libel or something, she thought viciously as she returned to the Healing Hall to prepare for the pre-match wellness checks. It was unconscionable that the woman was allowed to write, let alone publish such slanderous, gossipy print founded completely on her own wild ideas.

"Is everything ready?" Krasmira asked as she emerged from her office, the players' files floating beside her in a neat stack.

Still fuming, Hermione banged down a potion and nudged it into its proper place on the cart next to all the other potions they typically might need. "I think so."

"Excellent. Let's do a quick run through of the roster and review any potential issues that we want to follow up on."

Hermione nodded and they spent the next thirty minutes discussing the health of all the players. Recent injuries were discussed more at length, and Hermione dutifully took notes in their charts so they would remember to do a more in depth examination of certain things with the players.

Before she knew it, the players were coming in by position. First was Zograf, the Keeper, who Krasmira gave him a rather stern dressing down about his alcohol consumption once again. The older wizard listened without expression before leaving, and Krasmira sighed.

"We can only do our best," she said, looking after the Keeper with a hint of concern on her face. "Sometimes they don't listen to us, and you've got to learn to be okay with that. Ultimately, it's their decision how they treat their bodies."

Hermione nodded sombrely but didn't have much time to linger on it as the Chasers came in one after the other. They went by quickly, all three of them in relatively good health, and so did Ivan Volkov, Pyotr's counterpart. It was when Pyotr came in, looking a bit off, that Krasmira moved closer, her mouth pursed.

"The shoulder, then?" she asked after a cursory examination.

The jovial man who had swung her around the room and talked to her so candidly about Clara was subdued, his expression pinched. "It's just acting up," he said dismissively, beginning to pull his shirt back on as he rose from his seat on the edge of the hospital bed. "It's fine."

"Sit. Down." Krasmira's tone brooked no nonsense, and Pyotr reluctantly sat back down. For a long moment the two of them looked at each other, something passing between them that she didn't understand. Finally, Krasmira asked, "Do you want Hermione to leave?"

Hermione blinked. Not once in the months that she had been here had Krasmira asked that, no matter the injury. Thinking back on Pyotr's chart, she tried to remember what the cause of his shoulder injury had been. It was something old, she remembered, not fresh, but she couldn't recall the details.

"No," Pyotr replied at last. "It's Mia. She wouldn't."

The Healer nodded while Hermione was left wondering what Pyrotr had meant. What wouldn't she do?

"Hermione." Krasmira's voice was softer but all the more intimidating for it. "Remember your oath as a Healer to keep things confidential."

Mutely, she nodded. Moments later, Krasmira locked the doors to the Hall and made the window to the field opaque as Pyotr laid down on the bed.

"There are other treatments we can try," she offered.

Pyotr shook his head. "They stopped working as well. I need to be in prime condition for the match."

For the first time, Krasmira looked hesitant. "Are you certain you wish to do this? It'll likely leave you exhausted, and I'm not certain if it'll work. It's still experimental."

"It's good that this doesn't happen often." Pyotr's smile was almost painful to look at. "The last time you tried it, I felt much better and for a longer period of time."

Krasmira tapped her fingers against her arm, deep in thought. "If you're sure…"

"I'm sure."

"Very well. I'll go get the potions."

After a long look at Pyotr and Hermione, Krasmira swept off, leaving the two of them alone.

"Pyotr," Hermione said hesitantly, "I don't mean to be...insensitive, but, well...what's happening?"

The Chaser gave a bark of laughter. "That's right. You don't have any idea, do you?"

She shook her head.

Sitting up, Pyotr rested his arms on his legs, his hands dangling in between them. He leaned forward and then winced, readjusting so that he leaned only on his right arm. "Things in Bulgaria are a little different than what you're accustomed to, I imagine," he started. "We never fully eschewed the Dark Arts as you all do. They're respected and used just as any other field of study is, though we do place stricter guidelines on using them since wielding them with ill intent can cause permanent, lasting damage with nasty side effects."

"Right." She nodded. "Madam Lazarov and I have been researching potential remedies to lasting damage from spells, though we haven't yet gotten to talking about available remedies themselves."

Pyotr sat back, startled, before he shook his head. "Of course you're involved. I don't know why you wouldn't be. You're her apprentice, after all."

"That's right. So would I be wrong to assume that your injury is damage from a Dark spell?"

The Beater nodded. "My uncle," he said frankly. "I was six and loud and boisterous. One night, I suppose I was _too_ much of that, and, well." He shrugged. "The rest is history."

"That's...that's criminal!" She exclaimed, horrified. "You were a child!"

Pyotr shrugged his good shoulder. "It's what happened."

"And you've been in pain like this all your life for—for what? Just being noisy at the wrong time?"

"Don't make it out to be all that. It only hurts sometimes. Well, most of the time," he amended. "But I usually have full range of motion, and the pain is something I've learned to block out. It's background most of the time, really." At her expression, his own grew dark. "Don't look at me like you pity me. I don't need it, and I don't appreciate it. This injury is what it is and I've lived with it all my life. I've seen much, much worse. I'm lucky."

Still aghast, Hermione tried to reassure him, "I don't pity you. It's just that—well, I'm glad that we're trying to find ways to resolve this, that's all."

Pyotr's expression was inscrutable, and Hermione hoped she hadn't been so wrongfooted that her burgeoning friendship with him had died a sudden death.

"All right." Krasmira strode back in, two phials held in one hand. "You know the drill. This one first," she held up a misty purple phial, "and then this one." She shook a seagreen phial.

Wordlessly, Pyotr took the purple phial, uncapped it, and drank it down. Moments later, he grimaced and lay down, his entire body a long line of discomfort.

Krasmira, who had cast a vitals spell, nodded her head at Hermione. "Cast the vitals spell," she instructed her. "I need my wand free and I want the live version." The vitals spell, once they detached it from their wand to let it hang in the air or stick to the wall, lagged ever so slightly.

Moments later, Hermione had cast it the side of Pyotr, her concentration partially dedicated to maintaining the spell as she watched Krasmira silently cast a spell that spread across the entire hall.

At Hermione's inquiring look, Krasmira succinctly said, " _Silencio._ "

Her confusion at why that was necessary was answered after Pyotr, now sweating, gamely swallowed the second potion. Not half a minute later, his body arched and then locked, his face a rictus of agony.

That was when the screaming started.

o-O-o

When it was all over, Pyotr was asleep, Hermione was silently crying, and Krasmira's jaw was clenched so hard she could see the muscles twitching.

"Isn't there anything else?" She asked somewhat desperately. "Something better?"

"Nothing." Krasmira ran a hand over her face. "There's nothing better. Even that combination, which is of my own devising, barely helps."

"Why would he be willing to suffer that?" she asked after Krasmira had quietly closed the curtains around the Beater's limp form. "Is it truly that bad? Worse than...that? Than what he just experienced?"

Looking drawn, Krasmira replied, "Some Dark spells are particularly malicious. When they're cast, they cause the most damage at the contact point, such as Pyotr's shoulder. Some spells stop there, acting as a normal wound. Others don't. They can attach themselves to your body and spread throughout like a sickness, or they can target certain systems to wreak havoc on. In Pyotr's case, the spell used affected his shoulder and his skeletal structure. When it flares, as Dark spells are wont to do, every bone in his body—every single bone—is in pain. Frankly, I'm not sure how he's able to walk, let alone compete when it's like this."

"I would have had _no_ idea."

"I think that's the point." Krasmira put a hand on her shoulder and lightly squeezed it. "Cases like Pyotr's are why it's critical that the medical community continues to search for cures. While I've made substantial headway, as have others, it is hard to make further progress because my magic is inherently Light. I would think that _you_ , Hermione, are more likely to make progress than I."

"Because of my Dark Affinity?"

"Just so," she nodded. "What I would like to do, if you'd permit, is to continue showing you my research and explaining it to you so that when you return to Hogwarts, you may continue researching and working with it if you felt so inclined."

Her response was immediate and unthinking. "I do."

"I suspected as much. We've already covered a lot of ground examining current literature and efforts in progress, but I would like to review it all again and discuss how you can apply yourself to the task. Obviously you will lack much of the practical knowledge that will allow you to make substantive progress, but I wonder at how your affinity could factor into the active creation and application of current remedies." She tilted her head and looked into the distance, obviously thinking. "Well. I suppose we'll see where things stand at the end of the summer."

Hermione nodded, determined that she would try her hardest to figure something out that would solve the issue at its core rather than leave people suffering in agony just for a temporary fix. There had to be something she could do.

The rest of the day passed in fits and starts. Pyotr woke around lunch, his entire body relaxed in a way Hermione realized she had never seen before. She had assumed that the tension she saw running through him was one borne of the magnetic energy he carried with him, but when she noticed its absence after he woke she realised that it had never been his charisma that lined his body. It had been his pain.

After extracting a promise from Krasmira that she would permit him to play if he had recovered past a certain threshold in the morning, Pyotr departed back to the field and the rest of the team filed in for their own checks, all of them mercifully uneventful.

By the time Hermione was ready to head home for the evening, she was exhausted emotionally, physically, and mentally. "I need a nap," she muttered as she stepped into the floo.

But a nap wasn't in order, it seemed, as she was greeted by the sight of Sirius leaning against the counter eating what appeared to be a toastie of some sort.

"Sirius!" she exclaimed in surprise, moving toward him. "I didn't know you were here."

At the sound of her voice, he looked over at her. "Here I am indeed," he returned dryly. A ray of sun caught in his gilded hair, and she realized with a start that he was still disguised as Magellan.

"Why are you Magellan right now?" she asked him, waving her hand up and down to indicate his upscale attire and altered appearance.

Through another bite, he replied, "I'm about to be off for a bit. I was going to leave you a note, but this works just as well."

"When will you be back tonight?"

"Tonight?" He shook his head. "I'll be gone for several days."

Her heart jolted in alarm. "You can't be leaving that long. We've got the match tomorrow, remember?"

He frowned as he wiped his hands on a serviette. "There's no way I'll be back. I was planning on being gone for several days. I'm about to do something extremely important."

"And what I'm doing isn't?" she shot back.

"Of course it is," he placated. "All I'm saying is that what I'm doing is arguably more so. After all, my mission is what we were sent here for."

She stared at him like he had lost his mind. "So you think saving lives and healing people is just….what? Irrelevant?"

Sighing, he pushed off the counter. "Why does everything have to be some sort of competition? We're both doing important things. But Hermione, you have to remember our original goal: find Peter Pettigrew and bring him to justice."

She scoffed. "As if I would forget. Don't talk to me like I've suddenly gone mental, Sirius. I've always tried to support you and have done everything you've asked, even when you won't answer my questions. I almost never ask you for help with anything, and you agreed weeks ago to take me to the match. You know that I can't get a portkey since I'm underaged. It's literally Bulgarian law. And it's not even for something frivolous. Please, Sirius. This is important."

He was implacable. "I can't take you tonight. I'm sorry, love." Pulling out a pocket watch, he looked at the time. "Actually, I've got to be going soon, or I'll miss the meet up."

Pushed beyond her limits, she shouted, "Aren't you _listening_? This isn't just a quidditch match. "It's my _job_ on the line here!"

A job she'd almost been sacked from, through no fault of her own. Her stomach knotted. Not showing up would _surely_ do her in.

"And I'm sure you'll be able to take care of yourself just as you did when I had to ask you to leave the house that night," he replied evenly, completely unruffled.

She growled, her eyes flashing. "You know," she retorted angrily, "things like this make it really easy to hate you."

Something flashed through his eyes—perhaps guilt? Regret?—but it disappeared as fast as it had come. "I have my own mission here, Hermione, in case you've forgotten. That's why we're both here. Remember, Dumbledore asked you to come here to help _me_ , not to be an apprentice Healer. That was just to sweeten the pot, so to say."

"And it's not important to you that it's important to me?" she flashed back. "I don't understand what's happened to you, Sirius. At the beginning of the summer, we were on the same page. I even thought we were friends, or perhaps becoming friends. But now? Now you can't be fussed to help me the one or two times I ask you to. Now, you're disappearing, and you're spending time with people I don't know, and you're meeting them without your disguise. Which, in case you didn't know, also has the potential to endanger _me_ , considering I'm living with a _fugitive_!" Her voice had risen steadily until she was shouting the last word.

His expression softened. "I know how it must seem, Kitten—"

"Don't you 'kitten' me, Sirius Black."

"—But there are some things that I have to do that are time-sensitive and critical, and tomorrow is one of them. I'm sorry you feel this way, really, I am, but I can't tell you everything, and honestly, you probably don't want to know it. You're just going to have to trust me."

She huffed. "How can I trust you when you don't tell me anything? I don't know where you're going, or what you're doing, or even what the status is on finding Peter." Folding her arms, she glared at him. "You once said we were a team, Sirius, but you treat me as an afterthought."

Sirius sighed and ran a hand over his hair. "It's safer for you this way, to be honest, but I can tell you that I am very close to getting access to Pettigrew in a way that will let me deal with him once and for all, _and_ get my name cleared if I play my cards right."

Her breath caught in her throat at the idea of Harry's parents' murderer being brought to justice. "Really?" she asked.

A slow, anticipatory smile split his face, his eyes glinting. "Really. If I go tomorrow to meet with the people I've been working with, I think I'll be able to get him in the next few weeks before the World Cup. Then we can both return to Britain, and I can be exonerated, and it will all work out, but I've _got_ to go tonight."

She bit her lip, feeling incredibly torn. "Can't you go the day _after_ tomorrow? I need you to go with me. Please, Sirius. This is really important."

"And what I'm doing is just as important," he countered. "This is a pivotal moment that I can use to corner him." His expression looked predatory, his eyes hungry and mouth cruel.

The image of Professor Lupin and Sirius holding Peter at wandpoint in the Shrieking Shack with the express purposes of killing him filled her mind. "You're not going to kill him, are you? This is about bringing him back to England for a trial, right? That's what Harry wanted."

There was a beat of silence, and then the blonde-haired wizard inclined his head, that dark and murderous air hidden behind a solemn facade. "As best as I can," he promised. "I can't control everything, but I'll try my hardest."

Feeling slightly mollified, she blew out a breath. "I can't say I appreciate you putting me in the lurch like this—again‚ I might add—but I suppose I can understand."

He smiled, his cornflower blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "We're a team," he told her. "I know it doesn't seem like that, but I truly believe it. I wouldn't be able to do what I needed to without your help."

She watched as he quickly summoned a bag from upstairs, shrunk it, and placed it in a pocket. "I'll be back in a few days."

"I guess I'll see you then." She stuffed her hands in her pockets as he resettled his robes to hang straight.

He smirked. "Guess so."

He turned on his heels, the crack of apparation rending the air, and then he was gone. Again.

A wordless exclamation of frustration escaped her as she paced the room, angry at herself. "I can't believe I just let him do that," she groaned. He's gone and I'm just sitting here knowing almost nothing and left in a bind yet again."

To top it all off, she still didn't have any idea on how to get to the match the next day. That issue was far more immediate and pressing than whatever was, or wasn't, going on with Sirius and Peter Pettigrew. She couldn't do anything about that situation, but hopefully she could do something about this one.

As she blew out a long breath, her eye caught on the letter that Viktor had sent her earlier in the week. Since he had come over that one time after running into each other at the Square, he had been making noises about returning the favor and hosting her at some point. To that purpose, he'd sent over that letter, extending the invitation for her to come over anytime this week after practice was over.

She cast a look at the old clock in the kitchen. Half seven. Was that too late? Would it be an inconvenience? Honestly, she really could use his advice, but it seemed rather selfish to simply go over there and intrude on his evening, especially given that the match was the next day. At the same time, though, she was hard-pressed not to go over there since she so badly needed to talk to someone….

An idea occurred to her, and she strode over to the fireplace, the note in her hand. "Grigoriev Nikolaeva Cottage!" The family cottage where he lived, he explained, had been named after his parents' middle names so as to help stave off any unwanted fans from trying to enter his house by floo. Even if others did manage to guess it, the floo was closed and typically had to be opened manually by Viktor, with the exception of a few locations such as Krum Manor.

A distant tone sounded through the connection, and moments later, Mippy's face showed up. "Missy Mia!" The elf squeaked happily. "Can Mippy help you?"

"Hi Mippy," she politely returned. "Is Viktor home? Could I speak with him?"

"The Young Master is out flying," Mippy responded, "but he told Mippy that if Missy Mia called or asked to visit that Mippy let you in."

She processed that for a moment. Did Viktor trust her that much that he would just let her into his home without him there? That seemed...rather incredible, honestly, and indicated a great deal of trust. It was a rather staggering gesture, one that meant quite a lot given that conversation she and Sirius had just had about the _lack_ of trust between them.

"Is that too much of an imposition?" she asked Mippy cautiously. "I wouldn't want to intrude on his time."

Immediately, Mippy shook her head. "Young Master would be happy if Missy Mia came over. He smiles more."

The simple statement made heat flare across her cheeks, and she stammered, "I—well—he makes me smile too."

Both of Mippy's ears perked up as she nodded sagely. "Mippy knows. Mippy watches."

As Hermione tried to wrap her head around _that_ embarrassing statement, Mippy told her that she was opening the floo and to come through.

The fireplace she came out of was the same one she had come through when Viktor had been ill. It was located in a front parlour, a rather public space, that abutted the living room. As she straightened up, she brushed her clothes off and looked around. Now that she wasn't focusing on Viktor as a patient and was instead a visitor, she took the time to examine her surroundings.

The room was rather impersonal, with the appropriate furniture and wall hangings to decorate the space. She didn't see much of him present in the space itself, although the living room, which she saw through an open doorway, seemed to be more to his taste.

"Come with Mippy!" the elf commanded before trotting off in front of her towards the other room. Obediently, she followed, and Mippy soon had her ensconced in a deep, comfortable chair with a mug of tea cupped in her hands.

As she had predicted, the room was much more personal, and she saw photos of Viktor splashed across the wall in various situations. In the photos by the parlour, he was laughing or horsing around with some boys in what she assumed to be Durmstrang's uniform; in the portrait by the fireplace, he was standing solemnly with his mother, Kosta, and a tall, imposing man she assumed to be his father; by the french doors leading to the outside, there were some photos of him racing by on his broom, a few more of him with the Bulgarian National team as she knew it and some of him with another team, much younger in age, of boys in Durmstrang quidditch uniforms; by the kitchen, another, final set of small photos stacked vertically showed him interacting with various people that she assumed were important to him.

He had a rich life, and it showed. She also noted that he had designed the room all to be calm and relaxing, which stood in stark contrast to the stiff formality of the parlour room. Perhaps public Viktor and private Viktor were just as strictly defined, she thought, where you either got one or the other, with no in between.

Lost in thought, she sipped at her tea as she listened to the patter of the light rain outside hitting the windows. Viktor had best get back soon, she thought absently, or he would run the risk of falling ill again.

Almost as if on cue, his familiar silhouette streaked over some trees in the distance, his figure growing larger and slower as he approached the house. Nimbly, he leapt from the broom, catching it up in one hand as he strode toward the house. He really was just that big, she thought, but he was lean, too, not an iota of fat in sight.

The door swung open and Viktor strode in, stopping short at the sight of her.

"Hello," she awkwardly greeted him, unsure of what else to say. "Mippy let me in when I floo called. I can leave, of course, but I...I wanted to see you. I've had a huge row with Magellan, and I...wanted your advice? I don't mean to be inconvenient."

Viktor carefully set his broom against the wall and sat on the arm of her chair, his thigh pressed warm and solid against her as he looked down into her eyes. "Mia," he said seriously, "you are never inconvenient."

At his words, her heart gave a strange flutter as her mouth ran dry. Never inconvenient? She had always been inconvenient to someone in one shape or another.

"I'm not so sure about that," she replied at last, unsure what to say, "but thank you."

Lightly, he touched her shoulder, and she looked up at him. Firmly, and a little persistently, he repeated, "Never inconvenient. Not to me."

Heat rose to her cheeks and she looked down for a moment. When she brought her gaze back up, Viktor looked as if he were about to say something, wetting his lips, but seemed to ultimately decide against it, instead asking, "What brought you here? You said you wanted my advice?"

Her shoulders hunched at the reminder. Gnawing her lip, she tried to decide what to say that wouldn't give away secrets that weren't hers to give. "The thing is, Magellan and I had a horrible row," she finally decided on. "I've been feeling extremely frustrated with him for quite some time, and things kind of boiled over today."

Viktor frowned. "What did he do to make you more upset than usual this time?"

How to say this without being too explicit and yet still remaining honest? "There's something different about him these days. This darkness, this edge, this sense of….something." She drummed her fingers on her leg and stared at the fire for a moment. "There's something going on with him. Something I can't figure out. I'm worried about him. Worried he might be...might be changing. And not for the better."

He frowned. "What does that mean, 'changing'? Changing how? Do you mean—" his hands curled briefly at his side before he forcibly relaxed them "—going Dark and travelling down a path that he can't return from?"

A long, hard silence. "I don't know," she whispered at last. "And when I tried to confront him about his behaviours recently, he dismissed me. It's unfair. This whole time I've been working hard and trying to support him and he can't even spare the time to attend a quidditch match with me." She shook her head. "Instead, he's doing these things...secret things, where he won't tell me about them, or inviting strange people over that give me the shivers."

He looked alarmed. "What kind of people?"

"I don't know. Wizards?" she said helplessly. "They were perfectly respectable. But their eyes...it was something about their eyes. Or their auras. They all had this strange energy emanating off of them." Casting around for words, she at last explained, "Being in the same room as them felt like having your hair brushed the wrong way. It was unpleasant but not unbearable. But other than that feeling...I don't have much else to go on."

"You should always listen to your instincts," he told her, his hand gripping his mug rather tightly. He appeared as though he were poised to jump up and _do_ something, but what, she didn't know.

"I know I should," she snapped, then sighed. "Sorry. It's been a long day. Look, I know you don't like him, but I _know_ him. Well, at least I thought I knew him well enough. I'm having a very difficult time understanding him, and my instincts tell me one thing at one time and another at a different time. I don't know what to think about him. But he's been wronged in the past. Deeply wronged. And I don't want to be another one who jumps to conclusions and wrongly convicts him without proper investigation. I _want_ to believe in him."

"I don't know that he deserves that belief," Viktor said immediately. "Think of the things he's done to you this summer. Are those the actions of someone who deserves the loyalty you give him so unwaveringly?"

"He's important to me, and he's my guardian. That means something."

"But if he's not fulfilling the duties that a guardian should, and if he is acting in ways that are disturbing to you, then I don't think you should feel obligated to defend him or to believe that he is the man that you thought he was."

"But he _is_ ," she insisted. Even as the words passed her lips, they felt somewhat hollow. Even if he had started out as someone that she thought she knew the core of, perhaps he had changed to become someone that she didn't know any longer. At the very least, he had become someone she found hard to understand.

"Is he?" Viktor pressed. "Is he really?"

She looked down at her lap. "I don't know," she said finally, "but I don't think we'll get anywhere going around in circles like this. Let's just...focus on the immediate problem and the Quidditch match, shall we? Considering I'm not able to get there currently at all, and since I'm on thin ground as it already is, I'm worried this will _actually_ get me—get me sacked."

Her voice broke on the last. Traitorously, her eyes welled with tears, and she covered her face, embarrassed. "I don't know what to do," she confessed, her voice muffled. "Why is everything so _hard_? I'm trying my best, and it just doesn't seem good enough."

The sound of him putting his mug down came seconds before his hands gently gripped her wrists, pulling her hands away. "Come now, Mia," he murmured, voice soft. "Don't be so distraught. Here, look at me." His eyes, warm and dark, looked intently at her. "Getting you to the match tomorrow is an issue we can easily resolve. There are many people who you could stay and travel with," he reassured her. "You have friends, Mia, however hesitant you are to believe that. Me, _Maika_ , Clara, Krasmira...even Pyotr and Alexei. We would help you. You just have to let us."

She bit her lip. It was hard to fathom the idea that they would consider her as a friend. After all, she had only been here for a brief period of time. The last time she had made friends, it had taken almost two months and a troll before they would so much as talk to her. "I'm not very good at letting people help me. I'm used to relying on myself."

"And you shouldn't have to! For Merlin's sake, Mia. Just _ask_ _for help_ and we will give it to you. Here, repeat after me. 'Viktor, will you help me get to the match tomorrow?'"

He looked at her expectantly. "Really?" she asked. He nodded, and she sighed before dutifully parroting, "Viktor, will you help me get to the match tomorrow?"

Viktor's eyes lit up. "Mia, I am so glad that you asked!" he exclaimed, as if he hadn't made her say the words. "Of course I will help you. Mippy!"

Mippy popped into view, this time wearing a soft rose dress that somehow didn't clash with the grey of her skin. "Master Viktor called Mippy?"

"Yes. Mippy, would you mind fetching me some parchment and a quill from upstairs?"

Mippy nodded. "Mippy does so at once!" She popped out of existence before popping back in a mere moment or two later. "The Young Master's desk is very organized," she explained to Hermione, who was amazed at her speed.

Viktor scrawled something quickly on the parchment, went to his familiar, and attached it to his leg. "Could you take this to Krasmira, please?" he requested, stroking its head with a few fingers.

"Krasmira?" Hermione exclaimed in dismay. "Surely not."

Underneath his touch, Raya preened for a moment before departing through a window Viktor opened for him.

Viktor simply turned and gave her a level look. "Trust me. All I said is that you'll meet her at the Stadium tomorrow to travel with her."

"I can't…do...that?" She trailed off, feeling uncertain. Hadn't it been stated somewhere she had to travel with her guardian due to her age?

Viktor tilted his head. "She's your Mistress, Mia. As far as the law is concerned, she is just as good as your magical guardian, if not better. Besides, if you think Krasmira is going to let something as petty as a statue about underage travel prohibit you from going to the match, you clearly haven't known her long enough."

"Clearly," she echoed faintly. There was a pause, and then she ventured, "Is it really so simple as that?"

He inclined his head. "As simple as that."

Releasing a long breath, she felt some of her anxiety slowly begin to dissipate. The solution had been so simple and straightforward, but she wouldn't have known to do that. Viktor had, and he had helped her. More importantly, he had _wanted_ to help her.

A new feeling stirred within her, something foreign she didn't recognize.

"Viktor," she said quietly, "thank you. Really, thank you."

He looked at her for a moment before reaching out and enveloping her in his arms, her cheek pressed to his chest for an instant before he released her. "You're welcome."

Hermione was left feeling...strange. Had Viktor ever hugged her before? He had touched her many times on the arm or the back of her hand, and he had even stroked his hand down her hair at the Ball, but this was different.

Maybe they had reached a hugging point in their friendship? But the hug felt strange, somehow. When she hugged Harry, she didn't feel like she was being hugged by a bonfire that made her skin hot all over and her breath catch in her chest. With Viktor, it did.

Could she be getting ill? Was she catching something? She needed to sit away from Viktor. He couldn't afford to get sick again, especially since the match was tomorrow.

Perhaps she should go. Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Housekeeping_
> 
> 1\. This fic has its ups and downs, as does any story. As a result, the story will have dark moments and dark arcs. I will try to do my best to tag these chapters.
> 
> **A question for you all: Do you prefer tags at the top or at the bottom (so they will not spoil anything for those who would read anyways)?**
> 
> 2\. There will NOT be an update next week. I am having to rewrite large swathes of the 30s due to my plotting for GoF and need the time to catch up, despite having written about 50K over the last month. Sigh. These two. Smh.
> 
> _FAQ: Will this story be continuing into GoF territory?_
> 
> tl;dr: Not only yes but hell yes.
> 
> Longer answer: I have been hammering out the GoF arc for several months now. We will have many, many chapters in GoF where we get to see our favourite duo getting up to many shenanigans at Hogwarts. For those of you who are missing our main crew, don't worry: their time is coming.
> 
>  _AN_ I have so very much enjoyed being on this journey with you all, my small but mighty audience. Thank you for making such a dark year that much brighter for me with your reactions and interactions with me. They never fail to make me smile. Here's to a new year, hopefully filled with more joy, more fic, and more fun :)


	31. Interlude - A Cunning Man

Sirius Black rolled over and stared at the ceiling, the blonde witch lying panting beside him. Two months in, and the sex just got better every time. Although, honestly, after twelve years of celibacy, he was sure it would be good with anyone.

However, he thought, Svetlana Krum, who had been quite a pleasant diversion, was a particularly choice witch. The Russians certainly bred for beauty _and_ for brains.

"Lunch?" he asked after he caught his breath. "I'm famished."

Svetlana sat up, her hair cascading over her shoulder like silk. "I would think anyone would be hungry after what we just did," she said with a saucy wink, slipping out of bed and shrugging on a robe the color of pomegranates.

He got up and came up behind her, sweeping her hair aside to kiss her neck. "I suppose I could just eat you for lunch instead," he murmured against her skin, lightly nipping it.

She turned her head, her eyes going slumberous once more. "I wouldn't be _opposed—"_

A knock on the door interrupted him, and the Russian witch went rigid in his arms. "What is it?"

"Mistress has a caller," came the timid voice of one of her numerous house elves, who always seemed to cringe away from her when they got too near.

Svetlana sighed. "An important one?"

"Juju does not know, Mistress." The voice changed to anxious. "They insisted on seeing yous today. It's that wizard who came last week."

The witch rolled her eyes. "Again?"

"Someone bothering you, love?" Sirius asked, curious.

"No. It's this stupid little man who keeps asking about buying a book the family's had forever," she told him dismissively. "He's been quite insistent. He went to Russia first to ask Mama about it and offered quite a large sum of money for it. When she told him that it had come with me as part of my dowry when I married Kosta, he told her he'd come ask me directly for it. He's already come once and was rather upset when I turned him away, so I'm unsure why he's back again."

His eyebrows shot up. "It must be an important book, if he went to Russia and now came here to try and get it. What book is it? Perhaps I've heard of it?"

She shrugged. "It's really quite inconsequential, just a little book about mythologies that tells a story about different deities and says a little about them. Papa included the book because I enjoyed reading it as a child. There's a few about Bulgaria deities in there, I think, most likely about Morana, the goddess of death, and Zhiva, goddess of life?"

"He's gone to all that trouble for something as inconsequential as a children's book? Is he a scholar?"

"He could be. I don't know." Svetlana finished putting on a casual day robe of emerald green and pulled her hair out from underneath it so it could cascade over her shoulders. "Does it really matter?"

"I suppose not," he acknowledged. "I just find it interesting that someone would go to such an effort for a book you deem inconsequential. A children's book, even."

Sirius tapped his fingers against his thigh as his thoughts raced. Avery had mentioned that he had found mention of certain rituals that could bring back the Dark Lord from the dead, going so far as to assert that there could be one in Bulgaria proper. Something to do with their ancient gods and goddesses, which the Bulgarians seemed to worship in some form or another. He had thought it was a load of rubbish, but Avery had been insistent and even told him and Mulciber that he had talked to Peter about it.

Seeing the possibility that perhaps he could cross paths with Pettigrew, who had apparently lent Avery's assertion credence if he was searching as well, Sirius had pledged to look into the ritual. Satisfied, Avery had gone to Plovdiv, another of Bulgaria's larger cities, to chase down another rumour he'd found promising.

It would be ironic, he thought, deliciously so, if Pettigrew managed to deliver himself on Sirius's doorstep while searching for some stupid ritual that didn't even exist.

Perhaps, he thought, casting a quick look at the sky, there was some truth in karma and the meddling of the gods.

Casually, so _very_ casually, he asked, "Who's the wizard that's bothering you for it?"

"I'm not sure. Some little wizard from England. His name is Dolos Richardson but I just think of him as a rodent. He has eyes like raisins and teeth too long for his mouth." She wrinkled her nose. "He's hideous."

Sirius's heart leapt into his throat but he forced himself to remain calm. It could be a normal wizard, but he wouldn't put it past Peter to go by a fake name. A wizard who hid as a rat for twelve years to escape detection was capable of anything. However, it wouldn't do to put the cart before the horse, no matter how much he wanted to hope.

"Shall I send him away for you?" he asked. "I can take care of him quickly."

"No." She waved a hand. "I don't want anyone knowing you're here."

Right. She was married, and even though it was rather common for the Purebloods to sleep around once they were bonded, it was only the done thing if it was all covertly done. It wouldn't do to be caught — it could help lay the groundwork for divorce.

"I'll disillusion myself and come just in case," he told her, bussing her on the cheek as he held open the door for her. "If he's being pushy, I don't want you to get in an unpleasant situation."

Svetlana laughed, touching his cheek affectionately as she passed by him and swept down the hall. "You know as well as I can that I can handle it. You've watched me before, just as recently as last week."

He had. She'd opened up a muggle with nasty spell and a look of sincere pleasure in her eyes as they'd had postprandial drinks with Avery, Mulciber and a few others a few weeks back. It had been wrong. So wrong. But something in him had liked the look in her eyes and the way lust made her body taut after she'd done in. Something dark, something twisted.

There were quite a few things this summer that he'd done that he'd wished he hadn't and that he'd come to like and wished he didn't.

As he disillusioned himself, he flatly told her, "Humour me."

He had to know if Peter Pettigrew had miraculously fallen into his lap in his quest for a way to bring back his Dark Lord. It positively defied belief that he could be so lucky.

Svetlana didn't say a word as he followed her into the formal parlour of her townhouse. The room was elegantly appointed, the walls a pale blue and the floors a light tan wood covered with lush carpets.

However, Sirius didn't take much notice of the interior, all of his attention fastened on the wizard in front of him.

It was Peter.

He had thinned out a bit since Sirius had confronted him in the Shrieking Shack, his frame beginning to regain the leaner form Sirius had remembered him having. It didn't help the rest of him, though. He was still on the shorter side, with deeper set, beady eyes and a long nose with a tapered point. His front teeth were still a bit overly long (he'd lost track of how often they had told Peter it was an easy fix, but Peter, intimidated by Madam Pomfrey's sometimes brisk manners, had refused), though his skin was clear and his hair was brushed.

Overall, he looked like a horribly, abysmally normal wizard, not the man who had ruined Sirius's life and helped kill his friends.

"Mister Richardson," Svetlana greeted Peter coldly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Peter bowed and then straightened, his manner obsequious as always. "Madam Krum. Th-thank you so _very_ much for meeting me today. I wanted to inquire about the _Encyclopaedia of Mythical Truths_. I would really like to purchase it from you. I believe it has important information that will help me with a project I am doing with some colleagues."

Sirius arched a brow. Labeling Pettigrew, Mulciber, and Avery's desire to bring back the Dark Lord a _project_ was certainly an interesting way to put it.

"I've told you before that it's not for sale, Mister Richardson." Svetlana gave a tight and unfriendly smile. "It's a family treasure from my father's side, and we do not part with family treasures."

Peter licked his lips. "Are you certain I cannot convince you or your family? Perhaps a trade for something of equal value?"

"No," she said firmly. "I am afraid that I cannot and will not entertain the idea."

"How very unfortunate." Peter sighed and took a step toward her. Somehow, in that one step, he seemed to change and _become_. What exactly he was becoming, Sirius thought, taken aback, he was not certain of. His back straightened and his head tilted slightly up and to the left in an unconsciously arrogant gesture even as his eyes grew calculating and his mouth firmed.

"Very well," he told her, his tone crisp in a way that Sirius had never heard from him. "I suppose we will have to do this the hard way. Give me the book, or I will kill you."

Svetlana laughed, the sound genuinely amused. "That is quite the threat, and all for a book! Truly, you amuse me."

There was something not quite sane in Peter's eyes that worried Sirius. He had seen that look before: flat and cunning and ruthless. It was something he had seen in his mother's eyes, and now sometimes in his own.

It was a look that boded ill.

"Don't believe me?" this new, unfamiliar Pettigrew asked, drawing his wand and letting it dangle loosely in his hand. He stretched his shoulders and cracked his neck. "I've done worse to get what I want. And unfortunately for you, I'm patient. Even if I don't get it today, I'll get it eventually. I played the long game for years when I was young, you see. Waiting. Biding my time. Pretending to be a friend when I was an enemy. They never saw it coming, just like you won't." He licked his lips again, stepping forward.

Svetlana swayed back just the slightest, her dismissive facade breaking. Peter saw it, and his lips curved. "Oh yes. I was part of a band of brothers in school. We fashioned ourselves the Marauders. Joking. Pranking. Chasing girls. They took me in when I was weak little Peter Pettigrew, too shy, too scared, too _weak_ to be in brave Gryffindor house. They took pity on me and let me join their stupid little group. And then..." he paused, closed his eyes as pleasure washed across his face, "I went with my master to kill one of them and frame another for it. Poor little James, dead on the floor. Poor little Sirius, locked away for a crime he didn't commit. It was delicious. It was easy."

Sirius almost lost his composure at Peter's confession, a maelstrom of emotions roiling within him. Rage, anger, and a disbelieving, incandescent joy shot through him.

Peter had just confessed. Peter had just confessed, _in full_ , to an uninvolved party and clearly not under duress. If he could get Svetlana's memory of the confession, and if he could get Moony to give him his memory of the Shrieking Shack, he could, under the laws of the ICW, be cleared, with Pettigrew convicted in his stead.

His throat closed at the thought. Twelve years of being locked away with the Dementors, and all it had taken was sheer dumb luck, dubious morals, and a secret affair with a beautiful, married witch to reverse his fortunes.

At last, he could be free to live his life as he should have been doing. He could have a home, a life, and a family with the boy he should have been raising all along. All of that was in reach, now, a bright, shining future that he fully intended to seize.

Before he did that, though, Pettigrew had to pay for all that he had done. How lucky, then, that Sirius was here to ensure that happened, as slowly, painfully, and _finally_ as he could manage.

Dropping his disillusionment, Sirius moved out of the corner.

"Hello, Peter," he greeted the other wizard pleasantly. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Who are you?" the wizard asked suspiciously, his grip on his wand tightening.

That was right. Sirius had forgotten he was still hidden behind the facade of Magellan since Svetlana didn't know his real identity. Now, how to let Pettigrew know without giving it all away…

A thought occurred to him, and Sirius's mouth curled into a lazy smile. "Hello, Wormtail."

Peter twitched. Just barely, but he did, and Sirius relished in it. "How in Merlin's name — did you know I was after the book and position yourself accordingly?" He looked at Svetlana. "Or were you just lucky, lucky like you've always been, and were in the right place at the right time? Or perhaps…" His eyes narrowed as they grew calculating. " _They_ must have told you."

Pettigrew's face twisted into a sneer. "I should've known better than to trust fools like Avery and Mulciber with such an important task. They may have bought all your posturing — oh yes, I know _all_ about your activities this summer — but I knew better. You don't have any loyalty to my Lord. You're just a pathetic, broken man looking for revenge."

Sirius bared his teeth, all veneer of civility stripped from him as he stepped forward. "You little snivelling—"

Next to him, Svetlana stepped up and placed a hand on his arm. She'd been quiet as they talked, but now she spoke up, her voice as careless as usual. "Is there a problem, darling?"

He drew in a deep breath, seeking to calm himself. "I know this man." Did he ever. "He and I have a long, bad history between the two of us. Suffice to say that I've been looking for him for a long, long time, and now that he's here, I'd like to...take care of him." Lightly, he stroked her cheek with the back of a finger. "I'm going to dispose of him, now, as we did to those muggles before. Would you like to join me for a little pre-lunch amusement?"

He watched as her familiar bloodlust kindled in her eyes. Taking her wand from its holster inside her robes, she tilted her head. "Ah, darling, how you spoil me. You know how I love to play. Shall we?"

It was too bad, he thought as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw her anticipation, that he was going to have to do something about her, too. He couldn't afford to be sloppy and leave traces of everything he'd done this summer, and Svetlana Krum had done too much and seen too much to be left completely intact.

That was a loose end he could tie up later, however, as he wanted to ensure her memory of today — specifically of Peter's confession — was completely intact. Thankfully, she'd been watching Peter the whole time, her attention never deviating from him, but Sirius would still need to step lightly as he drew the memory from her to make sure it appeared as if only the two of them had been present.

Perhaps if he let her sit for awhile — a few months after he met with the ICW — then anything...strange that happened with her would be unlikely to be connected to her involvement with his case. Or perhaps he could set the stage before he and Hermione left...he could curse her with something—no, he would _give_ her something that would affect her credibility...Yes, yes, he liked that very much.

Next to him, the witch in question whipped her wand in a sharp motion, a red jet of light streaking toward Peter in the opening salvo.

The rat dodged Svetlana's attack, whipping up a shield quickly to deflect it, and cast a reductor curse in return. At the sound of her walls taking the brunt of the hit, Peter's eyes flicked behind her for a moment toward the door, indicating his intent to escape.

It was just enough time for Sirius to take out the second wand he'd procured at the beginning of the summer and cast one of the first spells he'd ever learned.

" _Expelliarmus."_

Peter's wand flew toward him and Sirius grasped it ("dark chestnut, 9 ¼ inch, dragon heartstring", Peter had told him proudly one night by the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room) in his hand.

"Not much of a dueller still, are you?" he drawled. In quick succession, he cast several immobilizing spells and silenced Pettigrew so he couldn't speak or verbally cast. "All that talk a minute ago, and here you are with nothing left to do but run and hide again. A coward's way out, that is."

Svetlana spoke a word next to him, and the walls of the room glowed a pale lilac for a moment. "The house is warded," she announced a moment later. "There's no way out unless I say so if you did try to escape."

Peter's eyes burned with hatred, but Sirius didn't care. Maliciously, he asked, "Cat got your tongue?"

He yawned as he pointed his wand at Peter. He was going to enjoy the wizard's slow death more than he'd enjoyed anything in a long, long time.

Almost lazily, he said, " _Reducto!"_

Peter's screams were like music to his ears as he heard the sound of several bones breaking.

That felt good.

That felt very good.

He raised his wand once more. " _Expul—"_

"No!" Svetlana's shout cut him off midcast. Wand still pointed at Pettigrew, he looked at her as she calmly said, "If you're going to kill him, do it out of the house. His death will affect the energy of the house and leave an imprint. I don't want that here. The authorities could detect it."

He sighed. "Very well." Striding to Pettigrew, he grasped the wizard by the collar and roughly dragged him up. "I'll be back once I dispose of him."

"I'll have the elves make lunch ready for you," she said, as if murdering a man was commonplace enough that it was simply part of the day. "I was thinking soup?"

"Good enough, though do ask them to include some of that bread you had last time. It was delicious. Oh, and take down the wards for me?"

A moment later, he felt them disappear. Grasping Peter's collar tighter, he made sure not to lose him as he apparated them to a sprawling field kilometres from any civilization.

Dropping his baggage with a thud, Sirius wiped his hand on his trousers. "It's just you and me now, Peter." He bared his teeth in the parody of a grin. "I've been thinking about what I would do to you for twelve years, you know. It's a very long time, and some of the things I thought of were quite creative."

Rhythmically, he hit his wand against his thigh as he went on, "I'm not going to just kill you outright. No. First, I'm going to hurt you, and then I'm going to make you suffer, and then and _only then_ will I leave you here while you die, slowly and painfully, just like I was left to rot in Azkaban."

"And you know what the best part of this is?" he asked the wizard, whose breaths were coming unevenly as he futilely tried to struggle against the ropes of the _Incarcerous_ Sirius had cast on him earlier. "After today — after I hurt you, which I will enjoy very, very much, and after I leave you _just_ this side of alive, so that you'll linger here, suffering, with nobody to help you and no way to survive — I'll wash my hands of you. I'll be able to take back my life, which I can do in no small part because of your bragging session to Svetlana earlier, and then I will never think about you again. It will be as if you never existed, and I will happily and joyously live my life as I should have been all these years."

Peter's expression was hateful, but the whites of his eyes showed as Sirius stood directly over him, his wand gripped tightly in his hand. Cracking his neck, Sirius smiled. "Let's begin, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some chapters that come easily, and some that don't. I have rewritten this chapter five times in the span of a few months because I wanted it to be absolutely perfect, and it got to the point that Constance just told me to let it go, so...here it is.
> 
> I am both excited and terrified to hear everyone's thoughts about this chapter! Things are about to get wild as we near the end...
> 
> FYI, I am hoping to have another chapter up sometime this weekend to make up for not posting last week. Yay!
> 
> _Edited 13/2/21_


	32. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  NOTE: If you are reading this during the weekend of 17/1/21, this is the second installment that has been posted. _Go back and read the Interlude, A Cunning Man, if you have not yet done so. You will not want to miss it._  
> 

France was a beautiful country. It had beautiful people and even more beautiful scenery. Unfortunately, however, Viktor wasn't a huge fan of France. It wasn't anything personal, really, but the French always acted as though they were superior, from the cut of their clothes to their magical ancestry. If it was French, it was better; if it wasn't French, it was lower than low.

Sometimes, though, the French got things wrong. And their Quidditch stadium, in Viktor's opinion, got things _very_ wrong. The stadium should have been beautiful. It was close to the Château des Rêves, a castle constructed early in the 15th century by a wizard for his lady love. Said wizard had also had a massive obsession with quidditch as well and so had built an extravagant pitch that he could use with his friends.

Unfortunately for Viktor, that pitch had become so famous that the French universally adored its idiotic composition and voted to make it the home of the French National Quidditch team. He felt sorry for the team given that they had to fly over a pitch composed of a damned hedge maze that also included fountains that spouted water at sporadic intervals, but he mostly felt aggrieved on his own behalf.

"It's a flying hazard," he complained as the team stared at the pitch, which was trimmed and pruned to obsessive perfection. "What if the snitch flies by the fountain and the fountain decides to go off?"

Next to him, Vasily looked at the maze with similar distaste. "I've heard the maze is magical and the bushes will eat you if you get too close."

"Is this even _legal_?" Clara wanted to know. "Has anyone lodged a complaint with the IQA?"

Pyotr shot her an unimpressed look. "If you think for even a moment that the International Quidditch Association is going to get off their arses and do a preliminary check, you're out of your mind."

"I still think it's worth it," she replied, crossing her arms. "Surely there's precedent. As professional players we're expected to play in any conditions, but I would think a man-eating maze and high velocity fountains are likely classifiable as obstructions rather than as conditions."

"By all means then," Pyotr made a grand sweeping gesture, "Off to the IQA headquarters with you. We'll play Koleva in your place since there's no way you'll be back in time for the match."

"Shut up, Vulchanov. I just think it's unfair."

"What I'm more worried about," the normally reticent Ivan spoke up, "is if something like Alexei's fall happens again."

As a group, their attention swung back to the hedges.

"Definitely a violation." Vasily folded his arms and frowned.

"Why couldn't they have just used the pitch over by the Notre Dame?" Alexei complained. "We're used to it!"

Zograf drummed his fingers against his legs. "The French are exhibitionists. They like to show off."

"Doesn't make it right," Pyotr commented. "This poses a danger to _all_ players, not just visiting players."

"Are you all still complaining?" Islov strode up to them, his usual training outfit replaced by a button up shirt, trousers, and semi-formal robes he hadn't bothered to close with the clasp at the top. "Put your things in the lockers so we can get a move on. The Meet and Greet starts at half ten."

"Aren't you concerned about the pitch at all?" Vasily wanted to know.

"What about it?" Islov asked impatiently. "The French put a ward ten metres up. None of the decorations will interfere with play, even if the hedges have developed a tendency for eating wizards on Wednesdays and weekends. The Catchers will be stationed at their usual spots and both sets of Healers are aware of the added complexity."

Clara looked at him like he was insane. "A tendency for eating wizards?" she echoed. "And you want us to play on top of that?"

"You either play or the second string plays, Ivanova. The match is going to go on with or without you." Islov's matter-of-fact pronouncement nipped any developing rebellion in the bud, and the team bent under his will.

Dangerous pitch or not, Viktor had his routine, and the sooner he started it the better. "What I don't understand," he muttered under his breath to Alexei, "is why we have this Meet and Greet _prior_ to the match. In the past it's always been after."

Shrugging, Alexei replied, "Part of the package of being a professional player, I suppose. We have these during the regular season with the Tengus and they're traditionally pre-match, so I'm used to it."

"I don't like it." Viktor adjusted his robes, an understated navy, to sit straight on his shoulders. "I don't like it at all."

Alexei clapped a hand on his shoulder companionably. "It doesn't matter one way or the other, my friend. We've all got to do it, although Pyotr somehow wrangled his way out of it. I think Krasmira wanted to see him?"

"What for?" he demanded. "Isn't he cleared?"

The Chaser shrugged. "I think so. He didn't say he wasn't."

Their conversation was cut short as they were escorted to an apparition point. Moments later, they were in an upscale restaurant—or perhaps a bar?—with enormous windows, industrial wood, and metal tables and seats that were softened with pale linens.

Next to him, Vasily was patting his pockets, an unusually concerned look on his face. "Shite."

"What is it?"

"I must've left my translator charm in my bag." Viktor winced, recalling how Vasily had once told him that he was horrible with languages, especially English, which was problematic since it was the universal language used in international games.

Viktor pursed his lips together, thinking quickly. "You can have mine. My English isn't great, but it's passable."

Vasily looked uncertain. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." He nodded.

The Chaser blew out a breath, relieved. "Thanks. I owe you one."

"Don't mention it." Quickly, he took the thin bracelet holding the charm flat to the inside of his wrist off and handed it over to the older wizard, who took it with the air of a man whose execution had been stayed.

Licking his lips, Viktor prayed his English lessons that he'd taken on and off over the years at _Maika's_ insistence would pay off. He hadn't been lying when he said his skills weren't great, but he figured this would give him a good estimation of what his baseline was without a charm. After all, he was going to be living in Scotland for almost an entire year, where the only language most people spoke was English, and he didn't want to have to rely on a charm.

Besides, if he wanted to get out of a conversation, he could always pretend incompetence. He smirked.

As soon as they entered the main area of the restaurant, people flowed towards both he and Vasily in an enthusiastic wave. Luckily the team provided security, so Viktor didn't need to concern himself with the possibility of a repeat of that one time in Bucharest. It helped, too, that this gathering was much smaller, and the people were assured that they would all have their chance to talk to him.

It was tiring, still, to try and parse their words before painstakingly constructing a response in English. Luckily, they were patient as he pieced together his responses after he explained he had given his translation charm to someone else, and he was grateful for it. There were, of course, a few who were impolite or even rude about it, but when the two wizards flanking him shifted their weight and gripped their wands a bit tighter, they typically subsided.

"Thanks." Viktor sighed as an American wizard, who had grown agitated when Viktor had been too slow for his tastes, finally left under Sasha and Ruzmena's watchful gazes. "At least things are better than the last time we did this."

Sasha, who had been with the team since Viktor had joined, nodded and leaned forward on his toes a bit. "Gatherings like these are easy. It's the public ones that make me worry."

On his other side, Ruzmena shifted, her alto voice pitched low as she said, "Incoming."

Interested to see what could make the normally unflappable witch give a warning, Viktor looked straight on and saw a girl about his age mincing forward, her hair a shining cascade of silvery-white that reached almost to her waist.

"Like moonbeams," Sasha, who had not a romantic bone in his body, murmured, his voice slightly dazed.

"For Merlin's sake," Ruzmena snapped, exasperated. She reached behind Viktor and tapped Sasha with her wand, muttering something under her breath. Moments later, Sasha stiffened, his face going a ruddy red.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Don't forget your spells next time," his partner chastised. "I swear, Sasha, one of these days you'll see a Veela and do something you regret."

Viktor was more interested in the byplay going on between the two of them than the girl (a Veela, apparently?) approaching him, but they both shut up as she came within earshot.

"'ello," she said pleasantly, her voice clarion clear like a bell. "My name is Fleur Delacour."

He bowed. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Her gaze sharpened at his response and she looked at him assessingly as her mouth, painted a striking vibrant pink, curled into a little smile. " _Interessante_. Well, it is what it is." She sniffed daintily. "I 'ave 'ad ze pleasure of watching you play before, Mister Krum, and I must say 'ow impressive it was." Her eyes, blue like the summer sky, looked up at him through thick eyelashes. "You must be very strong, _non?_ "

"I train as much as I can," he replied diplomatically. "Quidditch is very, hm," he frowned as he searched for the word in English, failed, and instead ended up saying, "I must vork hard to be good."

She tilted her head to the side, her hair slipping over one shoulder. "I admire zat very much. I was wondering, Mister Krum — may I call you Viktor?" Her accent stretched his name out so it sounded like _Veektor_ , her lips rounding on the last syllable as it were something savoury. "I was wondering if you 'ad any advice for someone 'oo is not too good at flying?"

He thought of Hermione and her repeated refusals to fly with him. "Are you scared of it?"

Shaking her head, Fleur replied, "Ah, _non_. I am merely, 'ow do you say, _trés mauvais_. Terrible." She smoothed her skirt in a practiced motion. "I could, per'aps, use some guidance?"

Her eyebrow, a delicate curve on her perfectly proportioned face, arched in an unmistakable question.

Ah. She was one of those types.

"I am sure that you vill find some," he said politely, resisting the urge to pinch his brow. "For now, let me tell you a few charms that haff helped me along the vay for keeping my balance." Quickly, he listed off a few basic charms and how he applied them to his flying, and Fleur's other eyebrow winged up.

"That is very smart and innovative," she commented, her English becoming suspiciously posh as she forgot to layer on her very French, very alluring accent as her interest in the topic at hand grew. "I wonder…'ave you considered applying Williams's Triadic Theorem to the spells?"

He frowned. "Villiams? The vizard out of America in the 1920s? Isn't he an alchemist?"

She nodded, tossing her hair in an absent gesture. "Yes, but the thing is, the Theorem is actually applicable to other areas as well. I think if you applied them to the three spells you just outlined that their effect could be more powerful and longer lasting."

Viktor looked at her for a long time, long enough that she sat back on her heels and her animated look faded a bit. When she spoke again, her accent had grown noticeably thicker. "What are you looking at? Is zere somezing on my face?"

"No," he said evenly, "You are much more appealing ven you are being honest than vhen you are being...French. That is vat I am thinking."

She flicked a hand dismissively, although her smile grew smaller and, he thought, a bit more genuine. "Don't be ridiculous. I _am_ French, and I am being 'onest _all_ ze time."

A minute or so later, Fleur Delacour took her leave of him by giving him one more flirtatious look before swanning off. "I am sure zat we will meet again soon, _non_?"

He inclined his head. "As you say."

Teeth flashing in an ultra white smile, she left, her heels clicking on the floor as she went to bowl over one of his other teammates with her...allure.

Viktor stared after her, bemused. What an interesting witch.

"A Veela, you say?" he murmured to Ruzmena as heads turned towards her like she was the sun as she passed through the crowd.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod. "Not whole, or there would be a bloodbath as everyone went for her. But at the very least, partial. I would guess a quarter? Maybe half?"

"Hm." Interesting. Very interesting indeed.

Soon enough, things wound up and Viktor was thankful for it. His mind was tired of translating things first into Bulgarian and then back into English, and he was ready to focus on things he knew well.

Surreptitiously, Vasily passed Viktor's translation charm back to him with another word of thanks after they returned to the locker room and kitted out. Viktor nodded and pocketed the item as he opened his bag, only to stop short at the sight of a note written in Krasmira's familiar slanted print left on top of his shirt.

_Viktor,_

_As discussed, your mother and Demetrius will be allowed to remain in the visitors' Healing Hall so she might watch you play. The official dispensation came through yesterday evening. I think it is a good compromise, especially given her improvement and how well she has been doing these last few weeks. The three of us will watch over her._

_Krasmira_

He blew out a breath, elation rising in him. So _Maika_ could watch him after all. Her joke that she'd never missed a match would be able to continue.

"Hey, you coming?" Pyotr, who looked alive and well, knocked a friendly fist on top of his head.

He nodded, folding the parchment and putting it back into his bag. "Of course. Hey, are you feeling alright?"

Pyotr threw him a quizzical look. "Me?"

"Yeah."

Still confused, Pyotr replied, "I'm fine. Why are you asking?"

"You weren't at the Meet and Greet." Viktor shrugged. "I heard that Kras called you in so I wanted to make sure you were good for today, that's all."

"Oh. Yeah, she just wanted to check on my knee," Pyotr said offhandedly as he tapped his right knee, which he had injured last week in a scrimmage. "You know Kras. Always double checking to make sure we're in fighting form."

What Krasmira was was amazing. Viktor didn't know how they'd managed to get a Healer of such calibre on their staff, but he was grateful for her every day. She knew _everything_ , and if she didn't know it, she'd either figure it out or invent a solution.

"But it's fine?" Viktor asked, glancing down at the offending joint.

Pyotr nodded, his smile bright. "Right as rain. I'm all cleared and ready to go."

"I'm glad to hear that." Viktor grabbed his broom in one hand and headed out the door, Pyotr at his side. "I wouldn't want anyone else playing your spot."

Pyotr exhaled a laugh. "Me neither. I'd do anything to play the game today. Anything. I'm sure you feel the same."

His reply was immediate and without thought. "Of course I do. Luckily we're both in good shape thanks to Krasmira, so we don't have to worry so much."

Pyotr's grip tightened on his broom before releasing. "Yeah. You're right. Thank Merlin for that."

Shortly thereafter, they all stretched in the centre of the maze, one of the only places with enough clear space that they could do so, and then broke off to do their pre-match warmups. Viktor did his usual ritual, but he couldn't stop his gaze from going to the visiting team's Healing Hall again and again, his mind distracted by the two women he most wanted to see.

At last he angled his broom down and flew over, the temptation too much to resist. He sighed, knowing it would cause a stir amongst the growing audience as the stands filled up, but it didn't matter to him. Whatever would make sure his head was in the right place was what he needed, and what he needed was to see Hermione and _Maika_ both.

A few moments after he placed his hand on the opaque wall, the one-way window vanished and he stepped in.

"Viktor?" Hermione hurried towards him, her burgundy robes trailing behind her as her expression creased. "Are you all right?"

Unaccountably, he felt his face flush with colour. His hand rose to grip the back of his neck as he cleared his throat. "I'm fine. I just...wanted to see you before the match started. And _Maika_!" He hurriedly added. "Is she doing all right?"

Hermione's expression cleared. "That's so kind of you to worry about your mum. Yes, she's fine. Demetrius is here with her too, although she insists all of this is overkill. Her words, not mine," she tacked on hastily as Viktor frowned.

"Better to do too much than not enough," he muttered, frustrated that his mother was still so blasé about her health when it was such a precarious thing.

"Don't worry," she reassured him, reaching out a hand and touching his arm. His attention arrowed to the connection, her hand burning him like a brand even through his jersey. In his distraction, he almost missed her last words. "We'll take excellent care of her. Just focus on the game."

Unable to help himself, he covered her hand with his own, his heart thudding in his ears at his gesture. Her eyes widened a little and she watched as her eyes flicked down for a bare instant before meeting his again, a light dusting of pink spreading across the bridge of her nose. "Has Islov caused you any more trouble?"

She shook her head, her plait sliding over her shoulder. "I've not heard a word from him since he came in here and tried to sack me."

"Good." His satisfaction was fierce. "You'd tell me if he did?"

"Viktor," she asked, exasperated, "could you even do anything if he did?"

"No," Krasmira cut in as she joined the conversation, her match-day burgundy robes starched to militant crispness, "but he could tell me, and I could do _quite_ a lot."

Both She and Viktor exchanged wordlessly smug glances before looking back at Hermione. The brown haired witch might be self-reliant to the point of self-sabotage, but the two of them had her covered, even if she didn't think to ask.

Tartly, Hermione replied, "All that is well and good, but let's focus on the matter at hand, shall we?"

At his blank expression, she sighed. "The _match_ , Viktor. The one that you're about to play in an hour? Ring any bells?"

"Yes, what are you even doing here?" Krasmira folded her arms.

Viktor coughed. "Checking on _Maika?_ "

She raised a single brow in response. They both knew Milena was in good hands—the best hands, even. "She's fine. Even if something were to occur, she's literally surrounded by medics. I know that her constitution is delicate and that too much excitement can be problematic, but Viktor—she'll be fine."

He resisted the urge to scuff a shoe on the ground like a little boy. "I know, I know. But she's my mother. I can't help but worry."

"We'll take good care of her, I promise," Hermione promised earnestly. At her words, his shoulders relaxed and he sighed.

"I know. I'm being silly, aren't I? She's watched hundreds of games. It's just that recently…"

"Are you worrying about me again?" His mother strode out of the back, Demetrius at her side. "Viktor Grigoriev Krum, stop wasting your breath and get onto that field right now."

" _Maika_ …"

Milena Krum folded her arms, her eyes narrowed. "Don't _Maika_ me, young man. We've all done far too much to appease your worries and yet you've still somehow managed to work yourself up. Get out of here and onto that field, or I'll not come to your next match."

He blanched. "You wouldn't."

"Try me. If I'm distracting you from doing your best, then I can't come, easy as that. So." She pointed. "Out. Now."

Reluctantly, he removed his hand from where it had held onto Hermione's and picked up his broom from where he'd leaned it against the end of a bed. "I'm going, I'm going."

"Good. Now go out there and beat them, and remember not to get caught up in Gustafson's wake when they inevitably do the Björn Blizzard."

"Yes, mother," he nodded obediently. Next to Milena, both Hermione and Demetrius were hiding smiles, neither of them very successfully, and he held that picture in his mind as he kicked off and flew back up into blue skies dotted with long, lazy clouds.

They all knew the match was going to be fierce, especially against the Nordic team who was famous for their combination moves. The team had studied the Nords in depth, dissecting the most recent games and using Pensieves to examine memories of past games.

From these studies, Viktor knew that Lundstrom, the Seeker, had mastered both the Haversham Spiral and the Izenbard Lunge, but he also knew that Lundstrom favoured a slower broom because it had greater dexterity. Lundstrom was excellent, it was true, but it was also true that she was no Konrad Weiss, and Viktor was fairly certain that he could outfly her so long as he remained vigilant and kept his head down.

By the time the match started, Viktor was locked into the proper mindset, all his ties to the earth falling away like trivialities as he became a being of the wind and sky. His body felt melded to his broom, his hands fused to the wood as his feet pushed against the metal stirrups.

Just as he had seen thousands of times before, the snitch rose out of the trunk in a gleam of golden, fluttering wings before it shot off, and just like he had done for most of his life Viktor chased after it, his entire being bent to his task.

Both the press and his fans had often asked him about what it was like to chase the snitch, and he never had a good answer for them. Nothing that would satisfy them, at least, as it was all very mundane. Unfortunately, he didn't have a secret formula or strategy: most of his success could be boiled down to a finely honed instinct borne of practice and obsessive study.

For one, he knew all the different manufacturers of snitches and their quirks and behaviours. Qin's snitches had a flutter rate of 722 beats per minute, making it faster than Lewis and Clarke's, which had a rate of 684. Zapata's snitches out of Argentina were known for their tendency to follow more geometric patterns of flights, preferring angular patterns as opposed to smoother circular patterns seen in snitches that came from Heikkinen's snitches.

It was this kind of knowledge that let him tailor his response to the snitch in each game. As soon as he successfully identified the make, he knew better how to track it. His obsessive practice with each type had helped him create a set of approaches and manoeuvres that he knew were most efficient, and so it was that he knew this snitch was likely out of Finland due to the slightly smoother path it cut through the sky.

Unfortunately, this type often required more spirals than the other types, which Lundstrom was extremely proficient at. Fortunately for Viktor, though, his broom was faster than Lundstrom's, so he could outpace her. It would be better, however, if he could approach from a different angle to intercept the snitch and remove her from the equation altogether.

He was flying high above the match when one of the players flew in front of him and he lost the snitch, his eyes scanning the sky. The sun was approaching the horizon as dusk approached, the wash of reds and oranges making it difficult to catch the golden glint against the variation of colours.

There!—a glint by the goal post as a stray ray of the sun hit it just right. He was off, arrowing towards Helstrom as the Keeper lunged to catch a Quaffle that Clara threw at a hoop. His vision narrowed to the speck in the distance, everything else taking on an indistinct blur as he sped towards it, hunched over his broom.

A flash of an ice blue jersey, a warning yell, and then he was blindsided, one of the players hitting him side on as they reached out with their bat to hit a Bludger. They went tumbling down, their brooms locked as their robes flapped around them while they scrambled to disentangle each other, cursing the whole time. Moments later they split apart, Viktor's ribs on his left a spike of agony as he inhaled and his left ankle throbbing.

"Fuck!" He exhaled sharply, trying to reorient himself, and regretted it moments later as his chest protested the action.

Fine. He didn't need perfect ribs to get the snitch. When push came to shove, all he needed was excellent vision, functioning hands, and pure grit and determination.

Grimly, he looked around, ignoring the roar of the crowd as Vasily handled the free throw the foul had given them and raked in ten more points. Well, good. At least they got _something_ out of that collision.

And then—out of the corner of his eye, the hint of a glimmer—there!

He was off again, pressed down against his broom as low as he could go. Ahead of him, the snitch went up in a gradual arc, its wings fluttering like mad as it climbed and climbed until it threatened to join the ranks of stars beginning to wink into the sky. Accordingly, he adjusted his trajectory, his angle growing ever steeper and the noise of the crowd growing quieter as he flew higher.

As if sensing his presence, the snitch veered left, then swung right before abruptly plummeting, and Viktor hurtled towards the ground, the hedges coming up to meet him in a rush of greens and browns before he pulled up. The strange warmth of the air alerted him to the wards Islov had mentioned earlier as he skated over them, the invisible spells the only thing separating him and the hedges. The snitch sped ahead of him, almost skipping as it hopped up and down in the air like a rock skipping along the surface of the lake.

He smiled small and tight as he drew closer. The skip, while disjointed in movement, slowed the snitch down in forward speed, and he hunched over as the golden ball came into arm's reach, and then—

His fingers skimmed one of the wings and he twisted his hand at the wrist just slightly so he could grasp the body more firmly. The heat of the snitch burned against his palm even through his gloves, and then it abruptly cooled into something more palatable as the wings shuddered and collapsed in to fold around the body.

He'd caught it.

The game was over.

Around him, noise crescendoed and collapsed in on him like a tsunami of sound as he heaved in gulps of air. "Krum, Krum, Krum, Krum!"

Bent over, his lungs burning as the pain in his chest suddenly became top of mind, he nonetheless raised the hand holding the snitch in the air. The roar grew louder, if possible, and he looked up to see a concerned Ivan and Vasily draw up even with him.

" _Ladies and Gentlemen, Witches and Wizards, Bulgaria has won the semifinal and is advancing_ _to the Quidditch World Cup Finals!"_

Loud booms erupted and sparkling fireworks of burgundy and silver floated through the air as the stadium erupted in chanting and singing.

"Viktor," Ivan had to yell over the noise, "are you okay?"

Slowly, he nodded. "I think so. My ribs—"

Vasily came in closer, his hand reaching out to grip Viktor's broom, and touched a metal piece at the tip of the handle. It glowed and turned a deep blue, and Viktor knew that Krasmira and Hermione had been alerted and would be waiting for him.

"Do you need help?" the Beater asked him directly, hazel eyes worried.

"I—" he hesitated, loath to ask for it, before giving in. "An escort would be nice."

Wordlessly, Vasily hooked his foot into Viktor's stirrup and maintained his grip on the broom handle with his left hand, his right hand firmly grasping his own.

"It was Hansen," Vasily told him as they banked left and down. "He wasn't looking—well, he was looking all right, but he was trying to get a good angle to hit the Bludger at Alexei. Doesn't matter." He flashed his teeth, his expression mean and vengeful. "Pyotr and Ivan got him good for you, and I got us a nice easy goal. Thanks for that."

"What was the score?"

"370-130." Viktor grinned at Vasily's reply. It hadn't even been close.

They approached the entrance to the visitor's Healing Hall. Krasmira and Hermione were outside, their burgundy robes a welcome sight.

"When I said not to worry about your mother," Krasmira commented as they came within hearing distance, "that was not blanket permission to go get yourself pummelled so you could come check on her again."

Though her words were tart, her magic was warm as she immediately cast a pain-relieving spell on him. "Can you dismount on your own?"

He nodded, though he groaned as the movement made something inside him scrape together.

Next to her, Hermione cast the long-familiar vitals spell, his stats presented to both Healers as pale lavender numbers floating in the air. Krasmira took a cursory look at them and then asked, "Which side did he hit you on?"

"Left side. My ribs and my ankle..."

Surreptitiously, Krasmira cast a featherlight spell on him before casting a levitation spell on him. "Pretend to walk," she told him. Viktor nodded, knowing that the more normal he appeared, the less press they would get on the impact of his potential injury. More importantly, though, it would make _Maika_ less concerned if she were to see him walking in on his own power.

His feet hovered just barely over the grass as he 'walked' in, and the moment they were over the threshold the window went back up and they were hidden from public view, the noise of the crowd muffled. His shoulders slumped in relief and he allowed himself to breathe in light pants: anything deeper was too painful, even with the pain-relieving spell that Krasmira had cast on him moments earlier.

As soon as he laid flat on the bed, Krasmira released the spells and scanned his torso, a projection of his thoracic cavity floating over him. "Well," she said after a moment, "you've got one broken and two fractured ribs and a bruised liver. Luckily, the broken rib didn't perforate anything."

Another quick scan, this time of his ankle, and she added, "Your ankle is sprained as well, but that's an easy fix. A few potions for that and all you'll feel is a lingering soreness for a day or so. The ribs, though...well. That's going to hurt."

You've got two options," she continued. "We can either mend the rib now and put you on some light pain relieving potions for the next few days as it all heals up, or we can drug you and gradually heal it over the next few days. Unfortunately, we can't Vanish and regrow the ribs because they're structural support and will run the risk of collapsing your lung. Well, we _can_ , but that's only in dire situations." She looked slightly sympathetic. "You don't fall in that category."

"The first one," he said immediately. "I don't even know why anyone would do the second."

"Healing it all in one go is more painful," Hermione spoke up for the first time, her tone clinical.

"But it allows for more ease of movement, right?"

"Yes." Krasmira clasped her hands behind her back as she explained, "You'll be able to do most of your daily routine — aside from practice for a day or two — with minimal impact."

He nodded. "Yes. I want that."

"Very well. This will be painful," she warned.

He shrugged. "I've probably had worse."

"Merlin save me from macho Quidditch players," Krasmira muttered. Fixing him with a commanding look, she ordered, "Lie down."

Obediently, he followed her instructions, gingerly letting his torso rest against the starched sheets.

"Vitya?" His mother's voice accompanied the sound of her footsteps as they heralded her approach. "What's going on?"

"Madam Krum," Krasmira said politely, "I must ask you to step behind the curtains."

"I'm fine, _Maika_ ," he reassured his mother, who appeared alarmed as the colour rapidly fled her face. "It's merely a minor injury that they're fixing."

"Minor? How minor?"

"A few bruised ribs, that's all."

Above him, Hermione and Krasmira exchanged glances. He refused to feel bad for playing it down so that _Maika_ wouldn't worry, his mouth firming.

"Shall we get on with it?" he asked pointedly.

"Would you like me to cast a silencing spell?" Krasmira inquired.

His mother frowned, her brow creasing. "Whatever for?"

"Nothing," he replied shortly. He remembered Vasily telling him once of how Krasmira had cast a _Silencio_ once when he was undergoing a particularly painful bone mending treatment and hadn't wanted to wake Clara, who had been sleeping off a concussion after being dosed for it. "Don't worry." He gazed up at the Healer. "It won't be necessary."

"Viktor—"

"I _said_ it won't be necessary. Now, please, can we just get this started and over with?"

Looking displeased, Krasmira nonetheless pulled the curtains shut. "Very well."

Shortly thereafter, she began instructing Hermione on the mechanics of what they were going to do, Hermione nodding intently as she followed along. When the explanation at last wound up, Krasmira turned to him and told him to try and hold his breath for as long as possible, as it would help them repair his ribs.

"And for the love of Merlin," she ordered him, "do _not_ move once I begin. It could be dangerous for you."

He nodded, and then she began casting in slow, sweeping movements, her wand held parallel to his torso. A dull heat began to throb in his side, and he gritted his teeth as it increased. Against his will, a grunt escaped, and then as he felt his ribs literally start to shift, he groaned, the sound deep and agonized.

"Viktor?" His mother's worried voice came through, and he closed his eyes. He had to remain quiet. "Viktor?"

Abruptly, something scraped together in his chest as a result of Krasmira''s actions. His head snapped back at the sudden, excruciating pain even as a chime went off, and he gave a short yell. "Ah, there we go," the Healer announced, satisfied. "I've aligned them. And not even a punctured lung to show for it. That last bit was tricky."

On the other side of the curtain, there was a thud, and then Demetrius cursed.

" _Maika_?" Alarmed, Viktor craned his head towards the noise and even tried to sit up. A stern hand pushed him back down, and he looked up at Krasmira, who was glaring at him and shaking her head as she continued an incantation she had just begun.

When no response was forthcoming from where his mother and Demetrius had been, Viktor tried once more to get up, caring far more about the ominous silence than his own health. Moments later, restraints snaked up over his shoulders and across his hips, and he couldn't move if he tried. "Let me go," he demanded, craning his head even further to try and catch a glimpse of his mother. "I need to see _Maika_."

"We're almost done," Hermione assured him, her focus totally on him as she manipulated something in his side. Neither she nor Krasmira had looked behind them, too involved in what they were doing to be distracted.

The pain grew until it was almost unbearable, his chest feeling as though molten iron were being poured on it. His hands dug into the bed, his back arching, and then, suddenly, somehow, it stopped, leaving only an echoing soreness that worsened when he breathed in.

"Let me go," he commanded again, his hands scrabbling at the restraints.

"But Viktor, we're not done—"

"Let. Me. Go." He snapped at Hermione, who flinched before looking at Krasmira.

"We need to do your ankle and then dose you," the Healer told him calmly, unperturbed by Viktor's anger.

"Krasmira," Demetrius said from across the room, "I would like your assistance if you can."

Black brows furrowed on the witch's face briefly before she turned, her burgundy robes spinning out behind her as she left Viktor's bedside. "Give him the potions," she instructed Hermione. "You know which ones."

Hermione's eyes widened, and then she bit her lip, thinking hard. "I'll be right back," she said, and then she was gone, too, leaving Viktor trapped on the bed and frantic to know about his mother.

"What's wrong with _Maika_?" he demanded to know. "Is she okay?"

Moments later, Demetrius replied, "She's just had a bit of overexcitement, I think." His tone was calm. Too calm. It was the same tone he had used when Kosta had fallen off his broom and been impaled by a tree branch when Viktor was a boy.

That tone meant bad things.

Hermione appeared back by his side, a handful of potions clutched to her chest. "Here we are," she said, placing them carefully on the table by his head. "I've got a—"

"I don't care what you've got," he snapped. "Give them to me so I can go, or so help me—"

"I think that she should be seen by Mitkov," Demetrius was saying. "He specializes in things like this, and I want a second opinion."

"I can't believe...like this," Krasmira's reply was too low for Viktor to hear, especially with Hermione saying, "I know you want to go, but you have to drink them all, Viktor. You must."

He exhaled. "Fine. The faster I drink them, the faster I can see to _Maika_. Release the restraints so I can drink them while you measure them out."

She blinked. "Really?

"Yes, really. Mia, for the love of Merlin, _give me the_ _damned potions_." He growled.

In the background, he could hear Demetrius's muted voice. "She insisted...against my recommendation, I might...the floo open?"

"...not sure about the international floo." For once, Krasmira sounded unsure. "We may have to go to _L'hôpital de la Miséricorde_ and floo from there."

Hermione carefully measured out the doses, and as soon as she gave each phial to him he threw it back. Even as he felt things moving around inside him, flaring with heat and pain and some strange mintiness, he was on his feet, rushing past Hermione without a thought.

The sight of his mother collapsed on the bright golden wood in a pool of burgundy and gold robes was one he would never forget. " _Maika_ ," he said, choked, as he collapsed to his knees beside the Healers. " _Maika_ , please wake up." When no response was forthcoming, he looked at Demetrius and then Krasmira. "What's wrong with her? Why isn't she waking up?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you all so, so much for the wonderful reviews from the interlude. I really appreciated the feedback and enthusiasm. Reviews make me smile and help me know that there's a reason to keep working on this beast (aside from my own enjoyment), and I always try to reply as best as I can! 
> 
> As promised, here's another update to make up for last week's absence.
> 
> Please note: posting should resume regularly on Fridays from now on until we reach the end, barring any sudden life developments.
> 
> _Edited 13/2/21_


	33. Chapter Twenty-Nine

When Hermione had first considered becoming a Healer, she had focussed solely on the idea of helping those who needed it, those who were in pain, diseased, or suffering from a malady or curse or the like.

It had not, not even once, occurred to her that those she tended to came with families, who suffered in conjunction with those they loved as they watched them suffer. Those who witnessed the pain, those who tended to and nurtured those who they held so dear as they suffered...no, she had not considered them at all.

But watching Viktor, who had clutched his mother's hand as he asked, tormented, "Why isn't she waking up?" had quickly fixed that.

Her throat had tightened as she yearned to go to him and tell him that it would be okay, but the crux of the matter was that she didn't know that it would be. She hadn't ever been alerted to the root cause of Milena Krum's illness. Most of the time it had only been alluded to as everyone else knew, presumably, what it was, and she had only been told in the vaguest of terms that it was some kind of curse. She hadn't even been told if they were trying to break it or what the effects of the curse were, as she was quite obviously not one of Milena's primary Healers.

However, it was clear that she was not improving, despite her general good health recently. Instead, she was declining in a slow and steady manner, the progression inexorable and painful to everyone involved every step of the way.

They had taken Milena first to the hospital in France so they could floo to the private hospital they had used in the past, where the Healer that Demetrius had sent a Patronus to ahead of time was waiting for them. Demetrius, and Viktor all went ahead while Krasmira remained behind, though she had insisted that Hermione accompany them ("I rather think that Viktor needs you more than I do", her Mistress had told her, "though if he baulks, tell him I sent you as a learning experience.").

Viktor had remained completely dedicated to his mother the entirety of the time, his gaze fastened to her form, limp and pale and somehow smaller than Hermione could have ever thought it, even as his own healing remained unfinished. Knowing what she did about injuries such as his, Hermione thought he must have been in severe pain, but nobody would have known if they'd looked at him. Instead, they would have attributed his wan pallor and tight lips to his concern for the witch he loved so, and Hermione wouldn't have been able to say which was right and which was not.

As they passed through a corridor marked **CURSE AND SPELL DAMAGE,** Viktor pulled a small object out of his mother's robes, which he had folded over his arm and brought with him. He fiddled with it for a moment before saying, clearly, "Kosta." Moments later, his brother's voice came through, first startled and then alarmed as Viktor succinctly informed him of what had occurred. He closed out the connection just as a Healer strode up, umber robes a bit faded under the bright light.

"Mitkov," Demetrius greeted him with a nod, and without further ado the two of them dove right into a highly technical conversation that was over even Hermione's head.

When Viktor looked at her questioningly, she shrugged, unable to tell him. The corners of his mouth turned down, and she wished that there was something she could do to help him or Milena, who she dearly cared for.

Unfortunately, there wasn't much, if anything, she could do except stay by his side in silent support, and that was where she stayed as they took Milena to a spacious, private room. Mitkov assured him that he would return shortly, as he needed to go retrieve a few potions and salves he thought might help.

It was as they arrived there that Kosta stormed down the hall, robes billowing behind him, and joined them, his eyes raking over his mother. Milena stirred a bit as he touched her hand, her eyes opening but her gaze hazy and unfocussed. "Kosta? Demetrius? Vitya? What are you doing here?"

Immediately, the other two men joined Kosta at the head of her bed, Viktor's expression joyful and hopeful in turns as Demetrius told her where they were and what had happened. Hermione expelled a breath she didn't know she was holding as Milena responded well to Demetrius' questions, and Kosta's shoulders dropped in relief.

"Thank Merlin," he muttered as Demetrius began asking Milena a battery of questions. "When Viktor called...I was concerned."

"What the bloody hell is going on here?" A tall, formidable man that had patrician features and a sneer that seemed permanently carved onto his face strode towards them.

Viktor's head snapped to face Kosta. "You called _Father_?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Like I said," Kosta winced, "I was concerned."

The Heir to the House of Krum stepped forward, placing himself between the wizard and the rest of them. "Father," he greeted respectfully, bowing and clicking his heels together. "It is mother, you see. She had an incident at the Quidditch match and had to be rushed here."

At Kosta's label, Hermione couldn't help but examine the wizard in front of her in greater detail. At first glance, she didn't quite see much of Viktor in him at all. However, the more she looked—really, deeply looked—the more she could see the familiarities, subtle as they were. The dark shine of their hair, the way they stood with their legs braced slightly apart, the slight tilt of their head…yes, it was there.

"The damned Quidditch match?" Viktor's father looked disgusted. "That's what brought this all about? I've told you time after time to give it up, Viktor. Playing a professional sport is not an acceptable profession for those of our sphere."

Next to her, Viktor's entire body tensed. "Is that _really_ what you're going to focus on right now?" he asked in disbelief. "My decision to pursue Quidditch as a career?"

"It's a fool's career," his father told him, his tone biting. "A waste of time. What benefit does it bring? How can you achieve lasting recognition for flying on a broomstick?"

She could fairly _feel_ Viktor's anger from where she stood next to him and touched his arm, trying to impart some calm on him. This was not the place to have a fight.

At her touch, he glanced over at her. Just then, Kosta diplomatically said, "While this is an important discussion, I believe this is neither the place nor time for it. Father, you were summoned because of Mother's condition."

The older wizard's eyes barely glanced at Milena's still form. "What of it?" he asked dismissively. "She does this all the time. Must I be informed every time she decides to faint and make a scene? I was in the middle of a critical phase of my potion."

Viktor ground his teeth together. "Is that all you have to say? That you were being _inconvenienced_ by her collapse?" At his side, his hands were rhythmically clenching and releasing. "There's not an iota of worry or compassion in you, is there? You're always too focussed on yourself and your own goals."

His father started forward, his face thunderous. "How dare you speak to me, boy—"

"That is _quite_ enough." Demetrius's voice whipped out. "I will not have you fighting and bringing the surge of magical and negative energy into this space while my patient is in a serious condition. Get out." He pointed.

"Matsoukas." Lord Krum turned his attention to the Healer. "Don't you think for a minute—"

"I _said_ get. Out."

Krum looked at him for a long moment before exiting the room. Viktor and Kosta followed, and she could hear the family row continue in the hallway even after Demetrius had closed the door.

"—even care?" Viktor was yelling. "She's your wife!"

"It was an arranged marriage. She was nothing more than a stepping stone for a business deal that we cemented via an alliance. Said alliance helped our House and provided enough clout for her family to make new deals of their own. Stop being so naive, Viktor. Grow up."

"Father," Kosta's tenor voice joined the fray, "perhaps this is not—"

"No, Kosta. Let me state this as plainly as possible, Viktor. I don't know why you haven't understood it, or if you just willfully ignore it, but here are the facts: I don't love your mother, and I never have. It was an arranged marriage between our families, as it so often was. She supports ideologies that I do not. I have goals that she doesn't share, and as a result, we do not get along. To be perfectly clear: I do not care about your mother, and she does not care about me."

"You're a monster."

"I am your father."

In the bed, Milena stirred. "Ah, Vitya," she whispered. "How I had wished to spare him this."

She hadn't even realised the Krum matriarch was awake. Quickly rushing to her bedside, she asked, "Milena, how are you feeling?"

The witch cracked her eyes open, peering over at her. "Hermione," she greeted, her voice a mere thread of sound. "I'm not feeling my best, to be quite honest."

Demetrius, who was reading the result of a scan he had run, pursed his lips. "I would find it very hard to believe you if you said you were feeling anything other than that, looking at these results."

"That bad, hm?" The older witch attempted to gain a more upright position.

Almost absentmindedly, Demetrius placed a hand on her shoulder to keep her down. "Don't even try it."

"I can—"

"No, you can't." He shot her a level look. "Stop being difficult just because you want to look strong when the boys come in. This is not the time. Hermione, can you go fetch Healer Mitkov from wherever he went? Milena needs another dose of the potion that he went to get sooner rather than later."

Glad to be of some use, she nodded. "Of course I can. I'll be right back."

Quickly, she opened the door and stepped out. When she turned around from closing the door, she was greeted with the tense sight of Kosta leaning against the wall as Viktor, on her left, glared at his father, who was on her right.

"I'm just getting Healer Mitkov," she told the group at large, unsure who to address. "I'll be right back."

Quickly, she scampered away, glad not to be in the midst of that tableau a moment longer. There was so much anger and history between the men of the Krum family that she didn't know. Viktor hardly spoke about his father, and she was beginning to see why. The man seemed almost antithetical to Viktor: he disparaged their familial ties, instead focussing on the corporate aspect of his marriage to Milena, and not only insulted Viktor's current career in Quidditch but also told him it was beneath him.

It was hard to imagine fostering a positive relationship with someone who seemed so cold and distant. To state, so plainly, that Milena was of no consequence to him when he was standing outside her hospital room...

No, he was not like Viktor in the slightest.

"Healer Mitkov?" She caught the brown-haired Healer's attention as he was talking to another Healer, their heads bent in conference. "Would you mind coming back when you have a moment? Demetrius told me to tell you that she needs that potion you were off to get."

The Healer begged off his conversation and joined her as they walked down the hall towards Milena's room, stopping for a moment in a small room on the way. Hermione watched as he wrote something on a piece of parchment and placed it in an empty box embedded in the wall. A wooden door slid up and moments later fell with a bang, and Hermione gasped as she saw a bottle of a murky, bubbling potion sitting inside.

Mitkov glanced at her with a small smile. "The wonders of magic, eh?" He grabbed the potion by the neck and they walked to Milena's room. "Is Madam Krum awake?"

She nodded. "She's a bit hazy, and her blood pressure largely remained the same as when she was out."

The Healer's brow arched. "Reading the scans, are you?"

Flushing, she bit her lip. "I'm an apprentice, sir. Madam Lazarov's apprentice. Milena—Madam Krum is my—well, I'm a family friend."

"Krasmira took an apprentice?" he asked, surprised. "Was she there when she collapsed? Well, that's neither here nor there. I will confess to some surprise that she was brought here if she had both of them administering care. In all honesty, Demetrius should be the attending. He's known her far longer than I have."

"They both thought it best to get your opinion," she explained. "They said you had more experience in treating conditions like hers." She paused for a long moment, then said heavily, "Healer Mitkov, it was...bad."

The image of Milena collapsing to the floor like a marionette with her strings cut would remain in her mind for days to come, if not weeks. Hermione had been exposed to sudden, traumatic injuries frequently enough during her time with the team, but this was something completely different that they hadn't really begun covering in depth.

It was still completely unsettling to her how Milena had been standing there one moment before folding over the next. Of course, she had had her suspicions of the older witch's illness: her pallor and thinness were something to note, of course, but she had had larger clues given the way Viktor, the house elves, Demetrius, and to her limited knowledge, Kosta, tended to care for her like she was something breakable.

To them, she was the sun that they gravitated around, catering to her every comfort. The fact that Viktor (or perhaps Viktor and Kosta?) had somehow negotiated with Krasmira and whoever else in order to ensure Milena could attend his matches only showed her how far they were willing to go to ensure she could do as she wished while being careful. It could not have been easy to accomplish such things, and yet they had.

However, it was clear to her that what Milena Krum received, she gave back in return, at least from her limited observations of her interactions with Viktor and, to a lesser extent, Demetrius. Her affection for her son, at least, was crystal clear, from the small things like calling him Vitya to the larger things like supporting him at the Festival of the Blessings and making sure to be present at his matches.

If Hermione had a mother like Milena, she would also be careful to treat her like she was something precious.

Her mouth curled downward at the thought even as they turned the corner and came up against the three Krums. They were in much the position she had left them in, though the elder Krum was ignoring a glowering Viktor and instead focusing on Kosta, saying something about fireseed output.

It came as no surprise, then, that Viktor chose to follow them into the room, going straight to his mother's side and standing next to a watchful Demetrius.

Solicitously, he bent over and gently clasped her hand in his. "How are you feeling?" he asked as if he hadn't seen her mere minutes earlier.

Her reply was lost to Hermione as she focussed instead on Healer Mitkov and Demetrius' rapid exchange of information and resulting agreement on which course of potions to administer. Instead of the original single potion Demetrius had requested and that Mitkov had brought, they administered three and performed some kind of additional charmwork that Hermione watched with great interest. Quietly, Hermione took mental notes to ask Mistress Lazarov about while she deferentially helped the two senior Healers when they requested.

His task ultimately accomplished, Mitkov gave a slight bow to Milena before leaving, though he promised to return in the next few hours to check on her. A moment later, Demetrius excused himself as well, ostensibly to discuss something with Mitkov, and then it was suddenly only her, Viktor, and Milena in the room.

Viktor, it seemed, had quite forgotten about Hermione as he huddled close to his mother's bedside. At some point he had transfigured something into a chair and wedged himself in it, his knees high enough to reach the underbelly of Milena's bed.

"—sorry I lost my temper," he was apologizing, his gaze downcast. "I know I have gotten better at managing, but _Maika_...I have a hard time remembering myself when I am around him. There's something about him. He makes me...irrational."

Milena carded her fingers through his hair gently, and Hermione's heart ached at the tender gesture, so full of affection. "There are some people who elicit stronger reactions than others," she told her son, "but the measure of a man is whether he can master himself no matter the situation."

He drooped even further. "Then surely I am no man."

"Darling boy, you are a wonderful man. You are simply young and learning how to restrain yourself."

He looked up at her, the picture of a boy needing reassurance from his mother. "How is it possible to be the man that I know you want me to be?"

She smiled softly. "You are already the man I want you to be. You are simply becoming a better version of that man every day."

"At least I'm better than the man I call my Father," Viktor muttered, throwing a bitter glance at the door. "He is lower than scum for coming in here and saying those things about you, especially when you're so ill. Truly, I despise him."

"Most of what he said isn't wrong," Milena responded, her tone mild. At that, Hermione suppressed a gasp. "The marriage was arranged as a way to cement an alliance. It has certainly been a fruitful one that has allowed for both families and their respective people to prosper. Who we were—our ideals for partners, our needs and wants—were sublimated in the light of the benefits. After all, we were just two people who had dreams and desires, and there were so many who stood to gain from it."

"It isn't fair that you had to put aside your own feelings and well-being!" he argued. "You should have been able to at least have some sort of say."

"Sometimes there are things bigger than ourselves that require us to put aside our personal feelings, Viktor. Our positions afford us great power that we must use to the benefit of many. isn't about fairness when I can ensure the prosperity not only of my family but also those I am responsible for." Milena rested her hand on Viktor's, her expression tinged with sadness. "There are some things bigger than our quest for love, Viktor. You must realize that."

Vehemently, he shook his head. "I disagree. How can I expect to do well—to flourish, even—if I am shackled to one I cannot stand? No. This...this I can't accept. If this is what marriage is, then I shall never do it."

His declaration was fierce, and Hermione knew that he meant it. He had that look on his face he got when he was reaching for the snitch: determined and laser-focussed.

Milena cupped his face. "I know, Vitya, but you will marry one day. Hopefully it will be to a witch you love—perhaps to one you know already, even?—but sometimes we must do things we don't want to. As a son of the House of Krum, you are expected to further the family's name and connections. This is just one way, but I will try my best to ensure you do not have to do such a thing."

"What, am I supposed to serve myself up like Kosta did?" Abruptly he stood and paced the length of the room. "He's married Svetlana, who is a classless shrew and not at all fit for him, all in the family's name. Isn't it enough that one of us has sacrificed ourselves to 'further the family name'? Should I present myself to the butcher's block as well?"

Milena's expression remained as pleasant as ever, though her tone gained an edge. "Your father and I did the same thing."

"And look how _that_ turned out." He gestured expansively. "You, alone and sick while he comes in and upsets you by saying those things and then, to top it all off, stands there dictating to Kosta like it's another normal day. He is a deplorable husband."

Milena's brows drew together. "Don't speak of him that way. He is your father, Viktor."

He smiled, a close-lipped and bitter thing empty of humour. "And what a father he's been, hm? What a husband, too."

From her spot in the spacious room, Hermione could feel the tension rising.

Milena sighed, pale fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I know that you don't think much of him, and I can understand why, but there are things you don't understand—"

"I think I understand everything I need to know," he cut her off uncharacteristically. "He prioritizes his work, his business, and his fame over you and the family. I suppose he can say it's all in the name of Krum, hm? It's an easy excuse to do as he pleases and damn the consequences."

His mother's face was strained as she began, "All I am saying—"

One of the many scans showing on the wall spiked and an alarm went off. Milena had become too agitated for her condition.

"Calm down, the both of you," Hermione commanded over the sound of the alarm. "Viktor," she shot him a pointed glance, "stop arguing with your mother. She can't handle it right now."

Taking in her pallor, Viktor was instantly contrite. "Of course. I shouldn't have...my temper got away from me."

"Do you promise to behave yourself, or should I send you outside?"

"No, no," he hastened to reassure Hermione, "of course I promise."

A bare instant later, the door opened and Demetrius strode in, his gaze flitting first to Milena before fastening on the readings. "Hermione." The reprimand in her voice was clear.

Feeling the instant shame of not doing a good enough job, she dropped her gaze. "I'm sorry for not stepping in sooner. It's just...I didn't realize how upset she was getting. She looked calm."

"She'll look calm right up until she's dead!" Taking a deep breath, Demetrius calmed himself. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. Milena is a rather difficult patient given that she doesn't take care of herself. That, combined with the fact that she has an excellent facade, makes her hard to judge at face value. However, Mistress Lazarov should have taught you by now not to rely on your eyes but rather to—"

"—rely on the scans. I know. I'm sorry." She felt as though she had been kicked rather firmly in the gut. What if something more serious had been brewing and her reticence to get involved in a serious conversation had caused damage to the witch under her care?

"See that it won't happen again," Demetrius said brusquely. A moment later, he shook his head minutely. "In all honesty, it's partly my fault. I forgot how young you are. You've only been learning for months. You've barely even begun training. I was distracted by my urge to talk to Mitkov, and I thought, perhaps _erroneously—"_ he shot a look at Viktor, "—that she would be kept in a calm environment."

Viktor looked down. Hermione willed him to look up and caught his gaze when he did, sharing a grimace as they both felt the sting of Demetrius' reprimands.

"Demetrius, you're being far too harsh on them." This came from Milena.

Perfunctorily, he cast some kind of spell over her that made her body relax. Hermione hadn't realised until then how tense the other witch had been and felt yet another pang run through her at the awareness she had not been as observant as she should have been.

If Mistress Lazarov were here, she would be extremely disappointed in her.

"Better?" Demetrius asked instead of responding to her scolding, his eyes trained on Milena's face.

She nodded, looking a little sleepy. "Thank you."

He tucked the edge of a blanket around her solicitously. "Of course. When you stabilize enough, I think we should go to Aigos Minas. It is calming and relaxing and removed from all of the stresses of daily life.

"I'm not sure that I would like to be sequestered away…"

Sternly, Demetrius said, "As your Healer, I'm telling you that you need the space."

Her frown was a little petulant. "I don't like it."

"I'll go with you," Viktor said suddenly. "I can simply floo from there to my house and then to the Stadium. It won't be problematic in the least."

Milena's eyes brightened at the prospect of being able to spend more time with her son, although she asked, "It won't take your focus away from your match?"

Viktor huffed and picked up her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. " _Maika_ , it wouldn't matter if it did. You are far more important to me than any match."

His utter sincerity made the teenage girl in Hermione swoon a little. If he said something even remotely resembling that to any girl while being that earnest, she would be a puddle on the floor faster than one could say _Liquefacia_.

"My sweet Vitya," his mother said indulgently, though her words were slurring. "I would love it so if you did. I do miss seeing you…"

"Then it's settled," he replied firmly. "I'll stay there until you return to the Manor."

Content with his response, her eyes closed and she slid into sleep only moments later. Viktor sighed, his reassuring smile sliding off his face. He looked exhausted and was holding himself somewhat gingerly. Abruptly, she realised he was still in his uniform. Somehow, it was still the same day as the game.

Approaching him, she tilted her head up to look into his eyes as she asked, "How are you holding up? Your ribs? Your ankle?"

He scrubbed a hand over his head. "They're all fine. Well, relatively speaking. Mostly I'm just exhausted."

She started. "I can't believe we've ignored your injuries all this time! We have to address them. Here, let me get Healer Mitkov."

Viktor shook his head. "No need."

Placing her hands on her hips, she looked him dead in the eye. "No need? Really? What would your mother say?"

"I daresay she would not be happy indeed," Demetrius said mildly from the entrance to the room. "Don't make a fuss. Go get some pain relieving potions, and I'll finish fixing you up later tonight."

Glancing at Milena, Viktor visibly hesitated. "I wouldn't want to leave _Maika_ …"

"Don't be stupid." Demetrius said as he came back into the room. "Nothing is going to happen to Milena in the meantime. She's stabilised and, as you can see, resting. Honestly, Viktor, you look like you've had an encounter with a rabid hippogryff."

Hermione, who had seen the aftermath of Draco's 'encounter' with Buckbeak, privately thought Viktor looked worse.

"Your mother is fine and she will continue to be fine so long as she remains in a quiet and calm environment. That's why I suggested Aigos Minas **.** She's always loved it there."

Viktor searched the Healer's face. "Truly, she will improve? Don't you think she should stay here for a while longer to stabilize?"

"Have I ever lied to you about anything medically related? She's _fine_ , Viktor. In fact, Mitkov and I think she can be moved tonight or tomorrow."

"I just don't know," he fretted. "I upset her only moments ago, and look how that turned out."

Compassion rose within her in a swift wave. He was clearly upset with himself for letting his temper get the better of him. "Demetrius has been treating your mother for years, Viktor. If he thinks that she's going to recover, chances are that she will. Listen to him and Healer Mitkov. This is their job."

He turned so he was facing her and caught her hand in his. The suddenness of it caught her by surprise, but it was the intense look in his eyes that stole her breath. "What do you think?"

"Me?" she managed.

Viktor nodded, his dark eyes intent on her own.

"I think that Demetrius and Healer Mitkov are far better suited to predict your mother's health than I am," she said firmly and with complete honesty. "If I've learned anything today, it's that I know so little regarding healing that I should be considered less than a novice."

"I wouldn't go that far." Demetrius' comment caused them to look away from each other and towards him. His striking grey-green eyes glinted with wry humour. "You're quite good for how long you've been learning the craft, Mia. I would say you're...oh, perhaps at the level of a field medic? Someone who knows enough to know basic triage but not enough to address substantive issues without further assistance."

She blinked in surprise. "Really? But today, I didn't even manage to understand the scan well enough to see that I should have stopped her and VIktor's conversation."

"That scan is complicated enough that I doubt many trainees would be able to read it."

Well, that made her feel a bit better. "Oh."

"Oh, indeed. But regardless, Mia, you're doing fine, and I thank you for your endorsement regarding Milena's care."

Viktor's hand was warm where it held onto hers, and she couldn't stop feeling a sudden and intense awareness of her hand where it touched his own. Her eyes dropped to it, gazing at the way they neatly fit together, before they rose to meet Viktor's once more. "So," she said around a suddenly dry throat, "that's my opinion?"

He squeezed her hand before dropping it with seeming reluctance. "Thank you. And really, Mia, thank you for your help today. I feel as though we were lucky to be in such a place when she...fell ill."

"It was certainly fortuitous," she acknowledged, "though I wonder if perhaps she should take care to be in less stressful environments."

Both Viktor and Demetrius's glowers indicated that this was not the first time the topic had come up. "I've told her she didn't need to come," Viktor said, "but she was insistent, and I tried to ensure that she would at least have the best care possible."

"I didn't mean it as an accusation," Hermione said hastily, "just as an observation."

Demetrius looked down at Milena, his face soft. "She is very stubborn. Too stubborn, really. But considering the progression of her condition, I think it...extremely unwise to attend the upcoming match."

Viktor nodded. "There's no way she'll attend the final. I'll ensure it's not plausible, even if I have to find her tickets myself."

Demetrius nodded as the two men shared a look over the bed. "I just wish she would listen to me," Demetrius sighed, "but she is so strong-willed it is near impossible, even if I yell. I am hoping, however, once she recovers that she'll be willing to listen more. There is a Healer—more of a shaman, actually—in Brazil who specialises in this. Mitkov recommended her to me a few months ago, saying that they'd had more progress in treating curses like hers, but Milena refused to go."

Viktor took his mother's hand in her own and stroked his thumb over the back of it. "I'll make sure she goes. Both Kosta and I will, I'm sure of it. I just...can't you tell me what's wrong?" he asked plaintively.

Hermione was startled at the fact that such a big piece of information was behind withheld from Viktor. It was his _mother_ , after all. Didn't he have a right to know?

Heavily, Demetrius said, "You know I'd tell you if I could, but she's made it explicit that she does not want anyone to know."

"I can't understand why, though." Viktor looked distraught. "I'm her son. Perhaps I could help? Could we use the family bond to strengthen her reserves at the very least?"

The Greek wizard looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Viktor. It's her wish, and as her Healer I'm not permitted to say unless directed otherwise."

Disheartened, Viktor's shoulders slumped. "I just feel as though I should be doing something more instead of just standing around."

Kosta, who had opened the door and was coming in, had caught the last bit of what Viktor said. "It's enough that we're here," he said. "I know how frustrated and worried you are. I am, too. She doesn't tell me anything, either. But...if we can just support her in whatever way she asks and be here for her when she needs us, I think that's the best we can do."

"Speaking of doing the best we can," Demetrius added, "I think I'll be going with her to Aigos Minas. I think the climate and calm atmosphere will do her well."

"Aigos Minas?" Kosta asked, surprised, before he turned thoughtful. "The island? I'll see if the staff can't make it ready. I can certainly see the appeal."

"I'm going with her," Viktor informed his brother. "I can easily get to the Stadium from there. Really, it's just an extra step."

"I've got a trip coming up that I can't avoid," Kosta said regretfully, "but, _brat mi_ , I know that you'll be good enough for the both of us. You've always had a bond with her."

The tips of Viktor's ears went red, and Hermione watched in fascination as Viktor actually shifted a bit, the closest she had ever seen him get to outright fidgeting. "I love her," he said simply. "I'd do anything for her."

Hermione watched the two of them interact with both envy and satisfaction warring within her. She wished that she had the same bonds that Viktor had with his mother, but she also wished, even passingly, that she had someone like Kosta. For all that they seemed distant and unlike each other on the surface, when something critical happened, they banded together to support each other and solve the issue at hand.

Her sigh drew Kosta's attention, and the older brother watched her with a discerning eye. "I can only imagine your exhaustion, Mia," he said. "Attending the match and then this? Please, get some rest."

"I didn't even play!" she protested. "Really, you should be concerned about Viktor. He was injured, after all."

Kosta's attention snapped back to Viktor as he examined him for injuries. "You were?"

"Only minor things," Viktor dismissed. "Nothing truly egregious. Mia and Krasmira took care of me."

Kosta inclined his head. "Thank you, Mia, for helping with two of the most important people in my life. I owe you a debt of gratitude."

Flustered, Hermione held up her hands. "Really, it was nothing. I was just doing my job."

Viktor looked skyward as if trying to gather some patience as Kosta's lips curled into a faintly amused smile. "That's what you always say." Viktor sighed. "I supposed I should have anticipated that response."

"What?" she asked, confused. "It's true."

He cracked a smile, the first look of happiness that she had seen all day, despite their win and resulting advancement to the finals. Reaching over, he brushed a stray hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear, his eyes fond as he said, "Never change, Mia. Never change."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
> *door slams open*  
>  Grigor Krum: At long last, I have arrived. You may proceed to bask in my presence._
> 
> _Happy news! _  
>  I finished the VERY rough draft of the summer arc on Tuesday night. It's clocking in at roughly 175K and 43 chapters, though I am sure that will change (typically lengthen) as I go back and edit. We've got quite a ways to go, but now everyone knows that this arc will be completed. Wahoo.__
> 
> __Please leave a review and let me know what you think! It's funny because every time I think I know what people are going to comment on, I am woefully, completely wrong. Shows what I know, lol_ _
> 
> __See you next Friday!_ _


	34. Chapter Thirty

A long time ago, the Krum family had purchased a small, remote island off the coast of Greece that was warded to high heaven. The property was unbeknown to almost everyone but the family itself and a small group of retainers that had been sworn to secrecy. The island was peaceful, with lush green foliage, cliffs, and hills. There was even, Viktor told Hermione as they entered the ten bedroom cottage, a waterfall within walking distance.

"That's nice," she replied distractedly, her attention totally focussed elsewhere as she rummaged in a large, floating medical bag. Pulling out several potions, she set them to float by her as she snapped the black bag closed. "Which room is Milena's?"

Her complete disinterest in where she was normally would have amused Viktor, but he was still too raw and smarting from the day's events to find much humour in anything. "She typically uses one on the second floor that overlooks the courtyard."

"Show me?"

Obligingly, he took her up to the room, her potions floating behind her like little ducks. She assessed the space, her gaze critical, and set about transfiguring a few times, she asked for his help since she hadn't yet learned the spells necessary, and he assisted in changing the room to her specifications. It wasn't much and took only a few minutes. Approvingly, she nodded and directed the potions to a small table.

"I'll go tell Demetrius that it's okay to bring her in," she told him. At his expression, she touched his arm, the soft pressure of her hand reassuring. "It's going to be okay, Viktor. I promise. Demetrius has been managing your mother's care for years now, and he's with her all the time should something happen. She just needs some extra time to recover."

He managed a nod, though his gaze lingered on the plethora of potions sitting innocuously on the side table. _Extra time_ did not require such an increase of potions and care, did it?

Running a hand through his hair, he looked around the room, wanting to _do_ something more impactful than standing around transfiguring things. He couldn't help directly — this was far removed from his wheelhouse — and he hated how helpless it made him feel. Maybe Grigor was right. Maybe he should be doing something more useful than playing Quidditch, because what good was riding a broomstick when his mother needed help that he was unable to provide?

Of course he had known that she was ill. Of course he had worried, sometimes rather obsessively, over her care and her well-being, as any dutiful son would do. Of course he had realised, in that abstract, far off way, that she was declining in a slow, unobtrusive manner. But to see that happen in real time—to hear her collapse, like a puppet whose strings had been cut...that was not something he would forget for a very, very long time. And to be unable to do anything to prevent it? That feeling was what lingered, even now, within him.

"This is all quite unnecessary. Really, Demetrius, won't you listen to me?" His mother's voice floated down the hallway as it preceded her, and he bit back an unexpected smile at the rancour in her voice. She did so hate being coddled.

"Just who, exactly, is the certified Healer here?" came Demetrius' familiar, mild voice. Moments later, the two of them came into view, the wizard guiding a floating wheelchair holding Milena in front of him.

His mother, paler than he had ever seen her, was as close to pouting as she was capable, her lips pressed together while her arms were crossed over her chest. When she saw him, though, some of the tension eased from her body and she held a hand out towards him. He hastened towards her immediately, grasping it between his own two hands as he questioned, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm perfectly fine, although if you were to hear it from these two you'd think I was on the brink of immediate expiration." Milena sniffed.

Above her, Demetrius' placid expression never changed. "We're just ensuring that you have the quality of care that you need, Milena."

"Tch. As if you would ever let me have less than the best." She made as if to get out of the wheelchair on her own and Demetrius immediately stepped forward to offer his hand to use as leverage. Ignoring it, she used Viktor's instead, and he carefully pushed up against her hold as she stood.

"There," she announced with great satisfaction. "You can see I am perfectly fine. Mopsy, where are you?"

Viktor, who was supporting most of her weight as she leaned against him, shared a long-suffering look with Demetrius.

"Perhaps Mopsy can wait a bit?" he suggested.

The house elf in question appeared in a crack, attired in smart sapphire pants and a white shirt. "Mistress called for Mopsy?"

"Yes Mopsy. Bring a tea tray for four when you have a moment, please," his mother instructed, as if she were hosting an impromptu gathering instead of trying not to fall over on the bed.

"Mopsy," Hermione interjected, "if you would perhaps wait fifteen or so minutes, we must get the Mistress settled."

Milena's lips pursed, but she did not object, which told Viktor far more than anything else about her state. Gratefully, he minutely inclined his head towards Hermione, who gave him a small smile in return.

Gently, he told his mother _,_ "Let's get you in bed for some rest."

"I don't want to rest," she responded irritably. "I want to have tea."

Deftly, Demetrius slipped over to her other side and took her by the elbow, guiding her towards the bed. "It's not a binary choice, Milena. Now get in the bed and we'll have Mopsy deliver the tea so that we can have it together. Does that satisfy you?"

"Very well." She heaved a put upon sigh, looking as though she were doing them a huge favour.

He tucked the sheets in around her. "Ornery creature."

"Meddlesome man." Her prickly tone had eased and slid towards something more indulgent.

After getting her settled, Demetrius enlisted Hermione in helping him retrieve a few more things from the hospital before closing the connection. He promised to be back in a few minutes, throwing over his shoulder that they would "most certainly be back for tea."

Milena's fulminating look eased at that, and she laid back quiescently. "He's such a good man," she said fondly, looking at the door head just left through before fastening her gaze on him. "Viktor, won't you come closer for a minute?" She motioned to him commandingly, and he pulled up a chair so he could sit by her side.

"Do you need anything?" he asked solicitously.

She rolled her eyes. "Stop looking at though I'm on my deathbed Everything is fine. Demetrius is just being over protective as usual."

"You need to listen to him," he told her witheringly, the image of her pale and still on the hospital bed vivid in his mind. "He's been the family Healer for aeons, even before you were ill. Besides," he gathered her hands into his, "you scared the absolute life out of me. Really. Please listen to him, if only for me."

Sighing, she reached out to touch his cheek, her expression apologetic. "I know I'm not being a good sport about this, and I am sorry for it. Demetrius knows I get rather, well, cranky when things like this happen, but I just can't help it. Honestly, I think part of it is due to the potions I have to take to bring all the internal inflammation down. Sometimes I get foggy and other times I get mad. Medicine can be rather inconvenient, though it does serve a purpose."

He nodded, though he wasn't quite sure what to say, and she gave a little laugh. "Now that I've scared them both out of the room with my insistence about the tea, I wanted to talk to you for just a moment. We haven't got long, but Viktor…"

She grew serious. "Don't let what you saw in the hospital deter you. I know that your father and I have a terrible relationship, but that's not all that's out there. Don't think that that's the fate you're destined for. Truly, love can be a beautiful, powerful thing." Her smile was wistful and a bit longing. Viktor was struck by the thought that she had loved, and loved deeply. "Don't make the same mistake I did and go along with things because it was expedient, or because someone told you to, and don't, for the love of Merlin, let that girl slip through your fingers."

He jerked away from her as if she had caught fire, and his terrible mother laughed delightedly. "I'm not—I don't—"

"Ah, Vitya," she said fondly, mirth soaking her tone, "don't even try to lie to me. You're terrible at it. Just wretched, really."

His ears burned. "Thank you, Mother," he said stiffly. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

"Don't get your trousers in a twist," she scolded him, "and listen to me. That girl is perfect for you, and I don't want you to let her slip away. So what if she's English? So what if she's going back to Hogwarts in a few weeks? All of that is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things if you decide she's worth fighting for."

He crossed his arms. "I don't think this is a good time for this discussion. I'm not in the right mindset for it."

"Tch." Milena waved his protest away. "Is it ever a good time? Just think about it, Viktor. Truly. I don't want you to let a good thing pass you by because you're caught up in negative thoughts."

"We're back!" Demetrius announced their return, and he and Hermione both carried several miniaturized trunks between them. "Be careful where you set that down," he instructed the younger witch. "The instruments are fragile."

She nodded, dutifully setting down the black trunk with exaggerated care. Her face was slightly pink with exertion, and Viktor thought the exertion brought out the sparkle in her eyes.

"I could definitely use that tea you've been so adamant about right about now," Demetrius told Milena, wiping his brow as it to rid it of sweat. He gave Viktor a surreptitious wink and he barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Don't think I didn't see that," Milena said drolly. Demetrius, about to parry with some acerbic remark, paused at the pale look on her face and instead walked over to one of the trunks, enlarging it and pulling out a fragile beaker of some kind of gelatinous, lavender liquid.

"Arms up," he instructed, dipping his hand into the jar. "Viktor, Mia, if you wouldn't mind stepping outside for a moment?"

"Really, Demetrius, not _that_ one."

"Don't give me that tone. You know I'm going to win this argument every single time, so I don't know why you're so persistent." Though his tone was brusque, the look in his eye was tender enough that Viktor suddenly felt he needed to look away. It was something private, something sweet, something...loving.

Hermione tugged on his arm, then, and he stepped outside to allow Demetrius to apply the ointment.

"Are you okay?" she looked at him worriedly. "You're looking a bit...odd."

He was certainly feeling a bit odd. Was that look...was that what he thought it was? Could it be that Demetrius, the wizard he had known since he was a babe, might have feelings for his mother? Surely not.

But that look and the gentle care he gave her indicated otherwise. As he thought about the way they interacted over the years, he became more and more convinced that he was correct. It wasn't obvious, but it was there when you looked for it. He was always so considerate, so kind, so attentive...all underneath his somewhat bossy, brusque Healer's persona he hid behind.

Viktor felt torn between being ill and feeling faint and finally settled on vaguely nauseated. He couldn't handle any more emotional surprises today. Really, he couldn't.

"You can come back in!" Demetrius called out. Viktor motioned for Hermione to precede him. When she went, although not before one more fleetingly anxious glance at him, he followed behind her.

"Demetrius, can I speak with you for a moment?" he asked, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears.

Giving him a curious look, the Healer nodded and followed him down the long hallway to an open, sundrenched landing that had two cushy chairs and a small coffee table between them.

Without preamble, Viktor told him, "I saw how you looked at _Maika."_

Demetrius' expression faded into something quizzical. "And how exactly would that be?"

He inhaled sharply, his emotions roiling within him. "Like you—like you _love_ her. That's how."

The older man glanced away for a moment, his mouth tightening. Setting his shoulders, he met Viktor's gaze. "I do."

The straightforward admission stunned him. "You...do?"

He nodded. "I do. I have loved her for a long, long time," he said simply. "Your mother is...your mother is brighter than the sun to me. She is effervescent. Once I saw her, it was hard to look away."

"And you're okay with that?" he burst out, unable to contain himself. "You're okay with the fact that she's married—to someone that hates her, no less!—and that she'll never be yours? That she'll...that she'll likely die before you have a chance to say anything?" A thought occurred to him, and he narrowed his eyes. "Unless you've gone ahead and said it anyways?"

"I would never." The wizard drew back, affronted, and Viktor relaxed. "Milena doesn't deserve one more ounce of suffering than she is already enduring. To have my affections thrust upon her benefits nobody. Not me, not her, not you, and not Kosta. I have loved her for a long time, Viktor, before you were born, even, and I suspect I will keep loving her until the day I die."

Unsaid was that Milena was far more likely to die before Demetrius would.

"I don't understand," he told the other wizard wretchedly. "I don't understand at all."

Carefully, Demetrius put a hand on his shoulder. "Love is free, Viktor. I don't have any expectations that it would be reciprocated, or that anything will change. I love her despite everything. I'm okay with the way things are, and I hope you find some peace within yourself about this situation."

"All I have learned today," Viktor said suddenly, his hands clenched at his sides, "is that love hurts, even in its absence. Father doesn't love _Maika_ , yet he still manages to wound her. You love _Maika_ , and even that hurts because you can't even be with her."

"It's true that love is painful," Demetrius acknowledged, "but Viktor, love is also rewarding. I feel better just for being in Milena's presence. She brings joy to my life simply by existing. Love isn't always harmful, as you've seen. It can be beautiful, too."

He shook his head. "I just don't see it. I really don't."

"One day, you will." Demetrius stepped back and looked towards Milena's rooms, smiling wryly. "I've got to go check on her. I am, after all, not here for a social visit." He began to move back towards the way they had come from but stopped, turning back around. "Viktor?"

"Yes?"

"Please don't tell anyone about this conversation. I would be...very distraught if certain people were to hear about it."

"I won't. I swear on it."

Satisfied, the Healer nodded, disappearing into his Mother's room. The door quietly shut behind him, and Viktor was left alone on the landing.

If Demetrius were right, he thought angrily, then why was everything so painful? Why was it that everywhere he looked things were unhappy and were people bound for misery? Love, in whatever form it took, cast a long shadow.

Filled with the raging fire of his emotions, Viktor retreated to his room, where he quietly shut the door. Standing in the wide, open space, his shoulders heaved as he tried to contain himself, until, with one explosive movement, he turned and hit the wall as hard as he could.

"Fuck!" He cursed as pain radiated through his knuckles and into his wrist. Slinking over to the bed, he cradled his hand as he sat down. "Fuck." Like that had helped at all, he thought, miserable and furious all at once.

He hadn't had such an outburst in years, choosing instead to channel his fiery temperament into flying and physical exhaustion. As _Maika_ told him, violence was typically not the solution to anything, unless it was a matter of defense or protection. And yet, here he was, regressing to a little seven year old boy having a temper tantrum because he had witnessed, yet again, the misery that romantic relationships had wrought on the people around him.

It was truly astounding, he thought, how different his mother and father were. It was like night and day, and it was patently obvious that they were two people not meant to be together. He was glad, almost savagely so, that they lived such separate lives, for every time the two came into orbit, only pain and damage were left in their wake. And yet here they were, still bound together in this parody of a marriage for reasons he struggled to understand while Demetrius was left to take what leftovers Milena had to spare as she remained unaware of the true depths of his emotions for her.

Marriage, it was clear to him, was hardly more than a chain with which people were bound, the links forged not out of love but out of duty or some other external benefit. His parents, of course, were a prime example, but Kosta didn't love Svetlana either. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, both his parents and his brother remained married to people they either could not stand or that they barely tolerated.

He could not stretch his imagination enough to imagine a world in which he could do the same. It would be a cold, lifeless world if he became trapped like they were. Trapped by their own volition, even! Trapped because of pride, like his mother, or more mercenary means like his father, and, he suspected, his brother.

What was worse was that he didn't even know if he would even be allowed to marry as he pleased. It would be up to his father to approve or dismiss his choice. That implied that Viktor was even allowed a choice, which he highly doubted. Even if Grigor Krum died, then Kosta, his brother, would be the new head, and then _he_ would have to approve the marriage as the new head of house.

It was during times like these that he so strongly resented his upbringing and his very identity.

Massaging the back of his neck, he thought through his options. A lifeless marriage to some scheming witch like Svetlana where he had to fulfill his familial duty seemed like a possibility he would have to endure. Would his wife be like Svetlana, using him to climb the ranks, or would she be like his own father, dismissive and cold to the bitter end?

Bile rose in his throat at the thought, and in that instant, Viktor swore to never marry unless _he_ wanted to. The only person in control of his life would be him, and he would never have a marriage like the ones he saw around him. No, he would have one filled with goodness and light. It would be with someone who accepted him for himself, who loved him and challenged him and made him grow, and he would be damned if someone tried to take his choice to find that person away from him.

His mind raced, furiously trying to figure out a way to ensure that he, and he alone, would be able to take charge of his destiny. If he just presented it as a done deal, perhaps? Hm. Maybe, but he was so young, too young to truly even want to get married, and even if he had been courting Hermione for several years, she was far too young as well, so that was off the books. What else, what else…

He stilled as a thought occurred to him. What if he made it so there was no possible way for him to be married unless he agreed to it? Unless he, himself, was wholeheartedly committed to the one he bound himself to? What if he made a promise—no. What if he made an oath?

A wizarding oath.

"Yes," he breathed. "That should do it."

It was a quick moment's work to unsheath his wand and think of what he'd like to say. Pointing it at himself, he clearly stated, "I, Viktor Grigoriev Nikolaeva Krum, do so swear upon my magic that I shall never be entered into a marriage bond with a person that I do not wholeheartedly choose. So mote it be."

A bright golden light flared from his wand tip before it went dark.

Something within him shifted before settling down, and he gulped a deep breath as the ramifications of what he had just done in the heat of the moment swept over him.

Zhiva. Goddess have mercy, what had he done?

Surely it was fine, he reasoned with himself, even if it had been a spur of the moment decision. Even though his emotions were all over the place, this was something that he believed in completely and utterly, and it was something he could use as leverage in the future if Grigori were to try and press him into a marriage he could not tolerate. Nobody Grigori tried to align with would want a member of their family to marry a squib, after all, and that was precisely what Viktor would become if he wasn't wholeheartedly committed to the marriage.

"Viktor?" Hermione's muffled voice came through the door as she gave a timid knock. "Viktor, are you in there? I heard a noise. Are you okay?"

A small, private smile crossed his lips, and he fluidly rose to his feet and crossed the room, opening the door and leaning against the doorway.

"Mia," he breathed, feeling lighter just from being around her. "I'm glad you're still here."

She looked at him like he was a little bit crazy. "I wouldn't have left without saying goodbye, you know. Really, though, is everything all right?"

His eyes flicked down to his hand, which was dangling at his side, and back up. "I'm fine."

Her brow arched as she met his eyes. "You're a terrible liar, you know," she told him blunty. Gently, she grabbed his hand with her own and examined it with a critical eye. "This is what you call 'fine'?" Blowing out a long-suffering breath, she rolled her eyes. "Seriously. I'll never understand boys."

"It's not anything that you need to worry over," he insisted. All he got in response to that was a quelling look from Hermione as she pulled her wand out and did a diagnostic.

At the results, she levelled him with a look before tapping his knuckles with her wand tip. " _Episky_."

"Ow!" He yanked his hand back protectively as he felt his bones shift back together with an almost audible snap and the resulting pain ratched through him. "A little warning would have been nice!"

Her expression was unrepentant. "Stupid deeds don't get any mollycoddling. Now, when and why did you fracture three of your knuckles?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he said sullenly.

Hermione pursed her lips. "While that's all well and good, I really don't think avoiding it is going to do anything to improve the situation, whatever it is. Clearly you've already had a go at fighting it out—with the wall, I'm guessing?—and that didn't go well either. I'm here," she spread her hands, "and I'm willing to listen. Let me help you like you've so often helped me."

It was his turn to sigh. Rubbing the back of his neck, he suggested, "Why don't why have something to drink in the kitchen—" which was far away from prying ears, "—and I'll tell you."

A short while later, they were comfortably ensconced at a small table tucked away in the back of the sprawling kitchen, each comfortably holding a cup of tea between their hands while a plate of biscuits lay between them on the table top. Haltingly, he told her of the things he had seen and felt during the last day: his father's words, his mother's words, Demetrius' words...so many words that caused so many emotions to roil around within him.

"How can it be this way?" he despaired. "Everywhere I look, love has lost. My father, who loathes my mother because she is a Light witch; my mother, who loathes my father because he's a right bastard; my brother, who married Svetlana for an alliance; Svetlana, who married Kosta for social status; and then there's Demetrius. He's the only one out of them all who actually loves, and loves deeply. And he's in love with _Maika._ "

Hermione couldn't quite stifle her gasp at the last. "He does?"

Viktor grimaced as he realised he had done the very thing he had promised not to do. But...well. It was Hermione. He could tell her anything.

"I saw him earlier today, you see. The way he held her while he was administering the potion…" He thought of Demetrius' gentle touch and longing eyes. "There is no mistake. I even asked him about it, and he admitted it outright." Looking up, he caught her eyes with his own. "I asked him, Mia, and he told me it was okay that they could never be together. That he was fine with things the way they were, and that he had dedicated his life to helping her and being with her, and that that was enough."

"Wow," she breathed. "I had no idea."

"Neither did I!" he burst out, his emotions roiling again. It was suddenly all too much, and he stared out the window at the clear blue sky, wishing that he could just escape it all, that he could just fly away and never return. But he couldn't escape this. He couldn't fly away. This time, the turmoil surrounding him had found its way inside, and no matter how far he flew or how far he ran, it would still be with him.

"Is that what I have to look forward to?" he asked her, unable to meet her eyes for fear of what he would see. "Is this what marriage? What love is?" Exhaling lowly, he confessed, "I don't want any part of this."

There was a long silence, and then her small hand crept across the table until it gently touched his wrist. "Viktor, I feel the same way."

His head snapped up. "You do?"

A small, sad smile quirked her lips as she shrugged. "My parents aren't exactly good role models, either. They love each other, I think, but it's an obsessive, self-centered kind of love that doesn't leave room for others. They had me..." Her breath hitched for a moment, and he had to lean forward to hear what she was saying as she continued, "They had me, but they tucked me away at home once it became clear I wouldn't fit nicely into their lifestyle. After all, I'm not what they want as a daughter."

Her eyes dropped as she traced the grain of the wood with her finger. "I'm a witch. Awkward. Unsocial. Not pretty enough by half. It's not that they said that in so many words, but it's clear. Why else would they put me away only to bring me out when it pleased them? I'm a disappointment to them in so many ways."

"They're idiots to think that," he argued. "You're kind and very well-liked and—"

She held up a hand to forestall his protest. "That's very kind of you to say that, but it's the truth. It just is. And yet I love them anyways, even though they don't love me as I so desperately wish. Even just their approval or their regard—Well. Enough of that. But it hurts, Viktor. It hurts so much to watch them with each other when they can't spare any love for me."

"Seeing that and experiencing that has shown me that I don't think that that kind of love is something I want because it doesn't leave room for anyone else. As the _someone else_ in this example, I know just how much it hurts. Is my joy worth all the sorrow it would bring to those around them?" She shook her head. "No. No, I don't think I want to marry if that's what it entails."

In his chest, he felt his own stupid heart, ever hopeful, cut open a little more at the admission that the one girl he had ever had true, meaningful feelings for had sworn off relationships all together.

A moment later, she made a thoughtful face. "Although…"

"Although?"

"Although...I think...maybe, one day, if the right person came around, I could be persuaded, but there would probably have to be a lot of conditions."

Rules? He could deal with conditions, especially since he was likely to have some of his own.

His heart leapt exultantly at the idea that _he_ could persuade her—would _enjoy_ persuading her—and he told it to calm down. He didn't even know if he had a chance with her. She did seem to like him well enough, and she had come to him, of all people, for help when she needed it. And perhaps she found him attractive? He wasn't sure about that one, but he thought he was reasonably attractive enough. If she didn't find him attractive now, perhaps she could grow to find him handsome enough?

None of that mattered now, though. He needed to do a little research before he let himself grow any more excited. It wouldn't do to let his heart, already so bruised, get beat up any more.

"So, Mia," he asked casually, leaning back in his chair even as his entire being was strung tighter than a bow, "what, exactly, would make someone the 'right person'?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. So. I'm sorry that this is a day late: I worked 15 hours yesterday and fell asleep on top of my computer trying to get this out. I'm glad I didn't post it half-edited, as I ended up making a couple of very important tweaks.
> 
> Please take a minute to let me know what you think — the last few chapters through the end are my very favourite parts, so I want to hear yours thoughts!


	35. Chapter Thirty-One

Viktor looked curious to hear her answer even as he lounged against the chair, his big frame dwarfing the delicate furniture.

Blankly, she stared at him. "The right person?" she echoed.

He nodded encouragingly. "Yes. You know, the person that you could be with?"

Though his question was logical, it threw her for a loop. She hadn't ever really considered it before, having always just felt like love and its other related...activities...were an abstract thing likely meant for other people that were most decidedly not her.

"Well," she said thoughtfully, tracing a finger along the grain of the wood of the table, "Naturally they would have to be smart. And like to read books, too, but of course smart people likely enjoy reading, I would think. And...well...kind, obviously."

If someone was not kind, if they couldn't see beyond themselves and understand the impact their actions or inactions had on others, then she obviously couldn't be with them, because she would be dooming herself to a life of misery. "Which precludes self-centeredness, I would think. But obviously that's off the table. They need to be able to care for those around them."

"They can't be like your parents," he put in understandingly.

"Exactly. They need to care about those around them. I also think that they should have a goal, or something they love, or something that they're working towards."

"A purpose, almost? Or a passion?" he offered.

She grasped at the words excitedly. "Yes! Exactly. Something bigger than them. Something that consumes them. You know, just how you feel like you should become a Weather Wizard so you can help your people."

The thought struck her like a lightning bolt, bringing her feverishly working mind to a halt. Viktor had a passion. Viktor had _several_ passions, in fact. He was also kind, and driven, and determined to do right by others, and he was whip smart, too.

Her heart stopped as the pieces snapped together in a sudden, almost audible click. Everything she was saying— _every single thing_ —fit Viktor perfectly, almost eerily so. She felt all the blood rush through her body before it turned to ice as she realised that the wizard sitting across from her was, in fact, the 'right man'. The only man. Outwardly, the world kept spinning as normal, though she froze with a fixed expression as her mind melted down.

"Mia?" Viktor was looking at her, concerned. "Are you alright? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

She laughed faintly. She hadn't seen a ghost. She'd just realised she was in love with him. "I'm fine."

She was not fine. She was very not fine, actually, but if she told him that, then he would ask, and then she would have to come up with some kind of believable lie, which she was not good at, and _then_ he would find out the truth, at which point he would politely say, "Why, Mia, thank you for your interest, but I am not particularly interested in snogging a girl with buck teeth and a know-it-all complex", and then they would stare at each other, and their friendship would be over, and then—

"Are you sure?"

With a massive act of will, she ground her panicked thoughts to a halt. She could have a quiet meltdown later when she was not in front of the wizard that she—that she….that she _liked_.

Oh Merlin.

"Quite sure." Forcing a bright expression on her face, she changed the subject. "Speaking of ghosts, are there any around here? There's a few at Hogwarts. I find them absolutely fascinating. We don't have any in the Muggle world, you know."

Subject successfully changed from the landmine of love and its trappings, she managed to make it through the rest of the evening, though both Milena and Demetrius looked over at her assessingly several times throughout the evening. Viktor, at least, she had managed to fool.

Or so she thought, until right before she stepped through the floo when he touched her hand. "You're certain you're okay? You've been acting a little strange this evening. Is it something I said, perhaps? Or is there something on your mind?"

His eyes were dark, and warm, and concerned, and she felt suddenly flushed and a little bit breathless. "I'm, um, yes, I'm fine. Really, Viktor, no need to worry."

"You'd tell me if I should?" He took a single step closer, which really made him quite, quite close, considering he hadn't been far away to begin with.

Her mouth dry, she promised, "I would definitely tell you. After all, what are best friends for? And we _are_ best friends—well, at least, I feel like you're _my_ best friend. I don't have to be _your—"_

He rolled his eyes. "Don't be silly. Of course we're best friends. Well, if you're certain you're okay, I'll see you tomorrow." His smile glinted white and bright in the foyer's light.

Helplessly, she smiled back. "Tomorrow."

When she arrived home, she stood in the fireplace for a long, long minute, her entire being in upheaval.

She liked Viktor Krum. She liked him much more than as a _best friend_ , and Merlin, what had been that tripe coming out of her mouth only moments earlier?

"Best friends," she mocked herself. So stupid.

That idiocy aside, what was she going to do? It was true: he felt like her best friend, perhaps even more so than Ron and Harry, who she had spent years with. Was it just hormones talking, that she felt a realness with Viktor, who she had only known for months, that she hadn't felt with Ron or Harry? Or perhaps, really, it was just different. Because she loved Ron and Harry, and she would do—had done—anything for them, from crazy stunts and death-defying feats to helping with their homework.

But Viktor was different. When she was with him, things seemed more real and attainable. As if together, they were stronger than apart. He understood her. His family situation was similarly dysfunctional, and he liked the same things as her. With him, she felt as if she could do no wrong, that he would accept her regardless.

Her head dropped. But he was _Viktor Krum_. Quidditch superstar. Top of his class. Second scion of House Krum. How could _she_ , a mere girl with little to offer—a Muggle, with bushy hair and buck teeth, with freckles and more brain than she knew how to handle—hope to offer anything to Viktor?

She was British; he was Bulgarian. He was a Pureblood; she was a Muggle. He was a superstar; she was just...regular. Regular, unremarkable Hermione Granger. The differences seemed insurmountable.

Yet when she thought about them—them together, Hermione and Viktor—it didn't seem like utter tripe. It seemed...tangible. Like something she could see happening, something she could almost touch, almost feel. The warmth of his hand on her waist as he steadied her after apparating. The patient sound of his voice coaching her through a new spell. The gleam of his teeth as his smile dazzled her. The sharpness of his wit when he allowed it to show through. Viktor wasn't just some Quidditch player. He was real, real to her in a way that nobody else had ever been.

A thought struck her, and she groaned in despair. None of this really mattered because she had literally, just hours earlier informed him she wasn't ever particularly interested in marriage, and perhaps not even dating.

Disconsolately, she kicked at the brick wall within the fireplace. As Ron would say, _bloody hell_.

A sudden thump from upstairs caught her attention, and she stepped out of the fireplace. The thump came again only moments later, and then again. Frowning, she moved towards the staircase, palming her wand. Was Sirius being attacked? It wasn't late enough for him to be asleep and having another night terror, though recently he had taken to putting up silencing spells around his room.

A muffled exclamation came as she hit the landing. "Yes, Magellan! Yes!" The tone was anything but tortured; in fact, she would call it exultant.

Her cheeks flamed and her shoulders hunched. It seemed Sirius was...entertaining...a female friend. Almost comically, her head swiveled from her room back down to the fireplace. Perhaps she could spend the night elsewhere. Clara would take her, likely as not, and so would Viktor or even Milena and Demetrius. But she could cast a silencing spell—

"Magellan!" The witch shrieked, and Hermione grimaced, then paused, then frowned deeply. That voice...it sounded rather familiar. Almost like… "Like that, just like that!"

Svetlana.

She didn't know what to be more horrified by: the fact she was listening to Sirius having sex with Svetlana, or the fact that she was hearing Sirius having sex with Svetlana, who was _married_ to her best friend's brother.

Oh Merlin. This was going to make Viktor so mad.

But should she tell him? Was it her business? Was it _his_ business?

She needed advice. As quickly as she could, she gathered some things from her room and scurried down the steps. Quickly, she made a Firecall to Clara, hoping she was awake. It wasn't too late yet, which made her feel optimistic.

"Clara?" she called, her head firmly stuck into the fire. "Clara, it's Mia." She hoped her voice wasn't so loud that Sirius could hear but was loud enough that it could get Clara's attention.

There was an audible thud, then the sound of walking. Clara appeared moments later, along with Krasmira. Hm. Well, it wasn't all that surprising considering what good friends they were. "Mia? Is everything all right?"

"Er. It's." She cleared her throat. "Uh, it's fine. It's just that, er, my guardian is, erm, well. He's entertaining a lady friend."

Clara laughed. "Is he now? Bully for him. Need a place to stay over so you won't expire of embarrassment?"

Fervently, Hermione nodded. "It's not that, really," she stressed. "I'm not that much of a prude. It's _who_ it's with."

Krasmira frowned. "Who? Is it someone you know?"

Hermine nodded, lips pursed together. "It's...well," she lowered her voice, hissing, "it's _Svetlana._ "

A moment of blank shock, then Clara sat back on her heels, letting out a long whistle. "You mean Viktor's brother's wife? Well. That's complicated. I see what you mean. Come on then, step through and we'll talk about it."

Clara closed the connection so she could use it, and moments later she was in Clara's living room, a giant, formal thing with the exception of a few cozy settees and chairs set right in front of the fireplace. Clara was in casual wear, as was Krasmira, though the latter was still in her robes.

"Are you certain?" Clara asked her as she brushed off her robes. "Here, come sit by the fire," her friend directed her, even as she was clearly distracted by what Hermione had told her mere minutes earlier. "Really, Mia, are you _absolutely_ certain?"

"As certain as I can be given the circumstances. Her voice was rather...clear. And loud." She winced at the recollection, and Clara grimaced.

In her own seat, Krasmira stirred. "Before I became….distracted at the Ball, I saw you standing with the elder Krum, his wife, and Quickfoot. It was very interesting to me that when you branched off, Kosta came with you."

Clara sat up. "Do you think…"

Kramira gave a minute shrug. "I don't know."

"Know what?" Hermione looked between the two of them. "What am I missing?"

"In Pureblood society," her mentor stated, "it's not terribly uncommon for one spouse to, hm, _investigate_ , let's say, the other."

"And by 'investigate'," Clara clarified, "she means to find dirt on them. In some cases, one will hire a, er, assistant to frame the other. For example, Kosta could have, uh, hired Mr Quickfoot to, uh, help him." Uncharacteristically for her, Clara fairly squirmed as she spoke around what she was trying to say.

Hermione's mind fairly raced as she tried to decipher her roundabout statement. "Are you saying that you think that Kosta hired Magellan to sleep with Svetlana?" she asked incredulously.

"I'm saying it's a possibility." Unfazed by the topic, Krasmira leaned forward and refilled her drink.

"But _why_?" she asked, aghast.

"Money."

"Money?"

Krasmira sighed, somewhat put-upon. "Yes, Hermione, money. Purebloods are typically dynastic. They marry to align with other, more powerful families in an exchange of goods and services. Marriages are notoriously difficult, almost impossible, to get out of for the reason that most of them are supposed to be binding. As in, forever."

However," she continued, "sometimes, when things are established enough business-wise or if a better opportunity arises, or, more rarely, one of the people involved in the marriage actually falls in love with another person, one family will decide to cut things off. At that point, the family will typically scheme on how to extract themselves from the divorce in the most intact way as possible."

"And proven infidelity is the best way to do that?" To hear things explained so clinically made her recoil. Even her parents probably would not do something as cold-blooded as that.

"It is one of the commonly accepted grounds for dissolution, though the proof has to be ironclad. Other grounds for divorce are things like infertility, insanity, and the like."

No wonder Viktor seemed so worked up when he spoke about love. "This is positively feudal, you do know that, right? In the Muggle world, people get divorced all the time."

"Ah, but do they keep all their belongings?" Krasmira asked archly. "The scheming we are discussing is the means to an end to do just that. Purebloods are notoriously greedy when it comes to their fortunes. After all, it's just not done to give up gold or heirlooms unless it's done for a reason."

She ran a hand over her face and wished that she didn't have to think of this. Damn Sirius and his womanizing ways. "So what you're saying is that Magellan was, er, hired to this purpose?"

"I wouldn't put it past Kosta." To her surprise, it was Clara who answered. Leaning forward with her hands on her knees, she added, "He is rather mercenary, just like his father."

Thinking of Kosta, she compared what little she knew of him to what she had seen in Grigori Krum. He had seemed...softer, somehow, as if Milena and Viktor's innate goodness had rubbed off on him just a little. "I can't picture him doing that," she admitted. "It doesn't seem like him."

Neither of them demurred, although Clara replied, "I can't say I know him well enough to do say either way."

"But regardless," Hermione said, standing up in her agitation, "I don't know what to say. For that matter, I don't know who to tell. Is it even my business? But the fact it's Magellan makes me feel like it is. He's _my_ guardian. It makes me feel responsible, somehow."

Krasmira stood and came over to her. "Hermione," she said sternly, gripping her by the shoulders. "If there is one thing I want you to learn this summer, it is that you are not responsible for other people's actions. The only thing you are in charge of is your own actions."

Clara came up on her other side, and the three of them stood in a loose semicircle. "I agree. Mia," the older woman's hand briefly touched her arm, "this is a shite situation. Honestly, I'm not sure what you should do."

Hermione chewed on her lip furiously as she thought. "If I tell Kosta, or even Viktor for that matter, I run the risk of imploding their marriage." But she knew that what she had heard was right. It was definitely Svetlana. She'd recognize that silken voice anywhere, and the way she'd seen the other witch cozy up to Sirius...it wasn't beyond belief, honestly. "But if I _don't_ tell them, then don't I become complicit in hiding the secret? Aren't I just as bad as them?"

Either way, it felt like everyone was going to lose something. She was either a homewrecker or a secret-keeper. To her, being silent felt like being complicit.

Looking at both of the, she asked, "What should I do? What should I say?"

"I think, Mia, that this is a decision you're going to have to make." Krasmia's tone was gentle but implacable. "Make sure it's one you can live with. Perhaps sleeping on it will make things clearer?"

She shook her head. "I just think...I think I need to tell them. If I were Kosta, I would want to know that my spouse was being unfaithful, because I wouldn't want to be married to them for a moment longer."

Supportively, Clara told her, "If that's what you think, then that's what you should do. Even if you do tell him, you need to remember that whatever he decides to do has no bearing on you. Once you tell him, that's where your responsibility ends. Don't put so much on yourself."

It was easy to say, she felt, but harder to put in practice. Later that night, ensconced comfortably in one of Clara's guest rooms, she couldn't get it out of her mind. First Viktor's face, then Kosta's, then Svetlana's and Sirius' floated through her mind's eye. What was right? What would hurt people less? Would knowing be more hurtful in the short run but more beneficial in the long run?

All of this was overlaid by the way her heart stuttered and then raced in equal measure when she thought of Viktor. Viktor, who she had realised would be the _right man_ , as they had labeled the idea earlier. Viktor, who was steadfast and loyal and determined. Viktor, who encouraged her and helped her and always, _always_ welcomed her. Being with Viktor felt easy. It felt _right_.

It also helped that he was quite handsome, she admitted to herself in the secrecy of her own mind. She had started to notice it during the Festival of Blessings, when he was drenched in sweat. His shirt had clung to his torso and his hair, which had grown out a bit, had stuck to his face. However, it was his mastery of his magic—the utter ease with which he had wielded it to harness the four elements—that had made her unable to look away.

The Ball had only worsened her awareness. He had been so solicitous of her, coming over to check on her when she had been talking with the Malfoys (whose behaviours still confused her to no end). And the way he had held her as they moved across the floor, so sure but gentle…

She shivered at the memory.

But it didn't matter. None of it mattered. There was no way that he could want someone like her. He was a powerful wizard in his own right. He was smart, and kind, and handsome. On top of that, he was also, of course, somehow a professional Quidditch player and one of the scions of one of the most powerful houses in Bulgaria.

He was amazing, and he certainly wasn't destined for someone like her.

And even if he were, she had told him that she wasn't interested in dating! Right before she had realised her feelings.

She groaned and turned over, shoving a pillow over her face.

It was best to just realize that things were not meant to be between her and Viktor Krum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeeeeee! It finally happened and they're finally on the same page...PHEW. I have been just waiting and waiting and was so excited I did a happy dance when I realised today was that day.
> 
> Please take a sec to let me know what you think!


	36. Chapter Thirty-Two

Hermione had been acting rather strangely for the past week **,** and Viktor could trace it directly back when they had sat together and discussed their views on romantic relationships. She'd behaved rather...unusually for the rest of the day, and when she'd left Viktor had been unsure what was wrong. Usually she told him, but this time she hadn't said a word, instead looking a bit wide-eyed and close to panicked as she hid behind the sliver of a smile. Even his direct inquiry as to what was wrong hadn't yielded any results.

Sighing, Viktor stood up from his desk and put on his robes, glad for an excuse to invite her along with him to Belnik. Perhaps, he thought, she would be more open to talking about whatever was bothering her if they were out and about doing something interesting. When she'd gone to town with him for the Festival of Blessings, she'd been bright-eyed and curious about everything. Hopefully she would enjoy going along with him this time and would relax enough that she would tell him what was wrong.

When he apparated to the road in front of Hermione's house, it was clear that Hermione was home. In fact, both Quickfoot and Hermione were present, as they were having a somewhat heated discussion that Viktor could hear through one of the windows, which was cracked open.

"—grew is taken care of," Quickfoot was saying, his tone placating, "and all I have to do is get a few things to take care of a few trivial things, like getting a bracelet, before we leave for the summer."

Although his curiosity was high and he felt loath to interrupt, his mother's admonition never to eavesdrop rang in his ears. As he approached the front door, intent on knocking, Hermione retorted, voice loud, What does that even _mean_? Taken care of? And what trivial things? What are you even talking about? If you would just tell me outright what's going on, these discussions would be much easier to have!"

Viktor rapped on the door in quick succession. There was a deafening silence, and a few moments later the door opened by Quickfoot, whose eyes flickered with irritation. Hermione, he saw, was standing in the living room by the couch, her cheeks flushed with temper.

"Viktor, what are you doing here?" she asked in surprise. "Is everything alright?"

"I feel as though I should be asking you that." He flicked a look at Quickfoot as he walked by him. "I couldn't help but overhear that it sounds like he's leaving you again."

Behind him, he could feel Quickfoot's eyes boring holes into him as the older wizard snapped, "It's not your business if I am. Who are you to ask questions like that?"

He planted himself in between the two occupants of the house as he glowered at Quickfoot. "I wouldn't need to ask questions if you would just do your job as her guardian."

Something flashed over his face—guilt, perhaps?—too quickly for Viktor to parse, but anger was quick to follow and settled in the curve of Quickfoot's lips and the set of his jaw. The man snapped, "Are you implying I'm not?"

"Would you call leaving a young girl on her own for days at a time in an unfamiliar country when she's too young to apparate and has few resources to call upon doing your job?" He retorted, settling more deeply into his feet in case he needed to fight. "I, for one, would not. And what about the emotional impact? The amount of times I've seen her cry—"

"Viktor." Hermione interrupted, her tone sharp. "That's enough."

"I'm only saying the truth!"

She closed her eyes for a long moment before opening them. "It's between me and Magellan. _No_ ," she held up a hand when he went to protest. "Leave it, Viktor. Please. Just...Leave it. Why are you here?"

He ground his teeth together as Quickfoot glared at him from across the room. Why wouldn't she confront him? Why wouldn't she stand up for herself? It was clear as day that the pitiful excuse for a wizard before him was leaving her again. It was all he ever did, it appeared.

But again and again she wouldn't stand up for herself. Always, she refused. What was preventing her from doing so?

"I wanted to see if you'd go to Belnik with me," he replied at last, his jaw working. "I wanted to see how well the Blessing took, though it might be too early still to see any real changes."

"You should go," Quickfoot interjected. "You enjoyed it last time you went."

"But—"

Quickfoot crossed the room and placed a hand on her shoulder. "No buts. Enjoy yourself. I'll be back in time for the Cup, I promise. I'm just trying to track down a few friends to say goodbye to since our time's almost done here, that's all. Well, that and a few other things, but they'll be quick. I won't screw this up again."

Viktor's heart ached to see the uncertainty and wariness painted across her face. "You'll be back in time? Really?"

"The Cup is the 25, and I'll be back the night before," he promised. "In the morning, we'll go just as we talked about. Nothing will stop me from being here."

Viktor would believe it when he'd seen it. Knowing Quickfoot's unreliability, Viktor had already arranged to come by in the early morning the day of the Cup to ensure Hermione would be able to get to the stadium in Britain by sharing his portkey with her. He'd be able to come and go as he pleased due to his status as a player, so he could drop her off and return to Bulgaria if he needed to.

"You promise?" Hermione searched Quickfoot's eyes again.

Quickfoot nodded. "I do. I give you my word."

"Okay." Exhaling, she stepped out of his hold and came toward Viktor, who held out a hand. "Fine. I'll see you in a few days."

When she took Viktor's hand, he transferred it to the crook of his elbow as he stared at Quickfoot, who picked up a bag and shouldered it. "If you don't come back," Viktor warned, "I'm not the only person you're going to have coming after you."

Quickfoot stared at him incredulously before huffing a laugh and giving a slow shake of his head. "You'd best find out the measure of the wizard you're threatening before you do so, boy."

"And you'd best think on my words. I may be one wizard, and I might be a boy, as you say, but I know how this country works. My family is powerful, and so are our allies. We can make your life exceedingly unpleasant, Mr Quickfoot."

The man laughed again at Viktor's threats, which made his blood boil. "You're a good one, Krum. Take care of her, while I'm gone, will you?"

And then, without waiting for a response, he apparated straight from the living room.

"I'm going to kill him." Viktor glared at where Quickfoot had been standing only moments earlier.

"Stop it," Hermione implored him, tense and upset. "Please, Viktor. I know what you're doing, and I appreciate it, but...the summer is almost over, and when we get back to Britain, things will be different. Really, they will."

"I find myself having a hard time believing that."

She winced. Hesitating for a long moment, she finally said, "I've never said it in so many words, but Quickfoot...well, he's standing in as my guardian for the summer. Obviously you've noticed we look nothing alike. But I...my parents are muggles, right? And, well...they wouldn't have been willing to come with me for the summer, even if they could have. So Headmaster Dumbledore...arranged for Magellan to stand as my guardian for the summer."

Headmaster Dumbledore? As in the Headmaster of Hogwarts? Viktor gave a little shake of his head. That seemed...unusual, to say the least. "Why not the Ministry?"

"The Ministry?" she repeated blankly.

"Yes. The government? I believe it's the Ministry of Magic? They would normally handle things like this, or at the very least have a hand in this matter."

Hermione looked uncomprehending. "They...would? Well, it's no matter. Headmaster Dumbledore helped because he also had a hand in arranging my time with Mistress Lazarov. Him and Madam Pomfrey, the Mediwitch at Hogwarts."

"And speaking of Hogwarts," she hurried on, clearly eager to be done with the conversation about Quickfoot, "there are so many things that I would like to show you. The lake is beautiful, for one, but Hogwarts has so many secrets that you wouldn't find unless you were looking for it! Also, we also have a _wonderful_ library. I can show you everything you need to know about that."

Fine. If she wanted to move on, he'd let her. But this wasn't the last time he'd speak of it, the end of the summer or not. "It sounds wonderful. It's a good thing that I am determined to secure a spot in Durmstrang's contingent so that I may come to Hogwarts, yes?"

"I…" she swallowed and turned a bit pink as he moved even closer and tucked a curl behind her ear. "Yes. Of course. I'm sure you'll make it on the team, given how much you've been studying and all."

At her reaction, he suppressed the urge to smile. She wasn't immune to him, after all. Perhaps...perhaps he stood a chance with her, after all.

Indulgently, he reassured her, "I'll make it, if only so I can get a personal tour from you."

Her eyes shone, luminous and bright, as she gazed up at him, and Viktor wished desperately that he had more time to be with her. Their time together was drawing to a rapid close, as evidenced by Quickfoot's actions, and Viktor acutely felt the time passing as though it were sand falling through his fingers.

There were so many things he wished to do with her and not nearly enough time for it, especially considering that he wanted to say something to her of his feelings — _needed to_ , rather. However, this close to the Cup, he was loath to shake things up. Partially because of Islov and his ever present, looming threat, but mostly because he feared what he would be like if she refused his suit since he still wasn't certain how she felt about him, her reaction just moments ago notwithstanding.

If she rejected his suit, he certainly wouldn't be in any kind of shape to play in the Cup, that was for sure. Even if the potential impact on his performance wasn't a consideration, he wanted to get something from the family stores before he declared himself, something (or thing _s_ ) that was weighty enough to convey how important she was to him. He wanted to show her, physically, the magnitude of his feelings.

No. No, it was not yet time. It had to be right after the Cup, perhaps even that night, if he could somehow get her alone.

But not now. No, not now. And so he set those yearning, lingering thoughts aside, placed his hand over hers where it still rested on his arm, and said, "Let's go to Belnik, shall we?"

Just as they had last time, Viktor apparated them to the edges of town. This time, however, everything was much more normal, with all the celebratory decorations and the like safely stowed away until the next holiday came around. There were people coming into and out of shops as they did their business, and many of them tipped their heads at them or held up a hand in greeting before continuing on their way.

A tall, lithe witch with silvered hair in an intricate updo and pale periwinkle robes waited for them at the fountain. Viktor smiled upon seeing the family's retainer. "Nevena," he greeted cordially. "Thank you for meeting me here today."

"Foolish boy," Nevena scolded him. "Where else would I be if it wasn't watching over your troublesome self?"

"I don't know," he replied casually, her age-old greeting making him warm, "doing one of the many other things that we ask you to?"

"Ridiculous," she sniffed. "As if I would be anywhere else. Ah, Miss Granger, I believe?" She stuck out her hand and Hermione shook it, briefly. "It's a pleasure to see you again. Come to see the impact of the Rite, have you?"

Hermione looked at Viktor uncertainly before nodding. "Viktor invited me along."

"I thought it would be enjoyable for her," he told his retainer. "One last foray into Bulgaria proper before her time here is up."

"That's right," Nevena replied, nodding. "You're only here for the summer, is it?"

"Yes ma'am. I'll be going back to school at Hogwarts almost directly after the Cup is over."

"Well then." Nevena set off briskly, leaving them to follow. "Best make the most of it, shall we? I want to show you several different locations so we can make sure the Blessing took properly across type and geography. The first is just outside of town. It's a short walk."

"What will we be looking at?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Different crops," Viktor told her. "We grow a variety of both magical and non-magical crops. The non-magical crops we generally sell locally at a very subsidised price or we export to regions that are unable to grow them. Some we sell in bulk to large institutions, though, but that's on a per contract basis. The magical crops we sell to a very specific set of organizations and individuals who we have extensive history with, although that all varies per ingredient as some are rare and others common."

"It's not infrequent that bidding wars come up as our slow-to-mature items finally are ready," Nevena input, her voice proud. "We produce highly potent ingredients based using our crops that potions masters and apothecaries the world over covet. A lot of that is due to our ritualistic approach to stewarding the land."

"The Blessing," Hermione breathed in realisation.

"Not just that," Viktor was quick to add. "We use magic in every step of the process—so long as it benefits the specific crop, of course—from imbuing water with magic to fertilizing with refuse from magical creatures. It's a bit complex—"

"He's understating things," Nevena cut in drily.

"But it's worth it," he finished proudly. "It's all rather incredible to think about, especially on the scale in which we do it."

Hermione looked a bit wide-eyed. "I would say so. Just thinking of the possible permutations...wow. How do you even know what the best combinations are?"

He grinned wryly. "Hundreds of years of experimentation and research. That's why our materials are so highly sought after. We know how to do it best, or at least as good as all the others."

Hermione asked several questions, some thought-provoking, as they looked at how the various crops were doing. Viktor liked how she made him think about things in new and different ways, and he liked very much how she seemed to fit so well next to them as they examined first the fireseed and then the squill.

It was easy to imagine a future like this with her, he thought, where she was tucked into him with her hand resting on his arm. She would come look at things with him and make observations he hadn't and ask questions he wouldn't think of. Maybe they'd have lunch in town, first, or even after, and everyone would greet her with the same fondness they did for him.

If she accepted his overture to court her, and if she married him years and years down the line, and if she deigned to move to Bulgaria…if, if, if. But _if_ she did, Viktor could not imagine a witch he wanted more as his partner.

His mouth quirked as he considered how she would add to the Rite of Blessings and the Rite of Renewal that took place in the late spring. Married pairs whose magic complemented each other — as theirs very well might — created more powerful, longer lasting effects, after all.

Yes, he liked the idea of her magic spreading out over the land to breathe life into it very much.

"And you said that things weren't well at all last year?" she was asking Nevena sceptically. "Everything just looks so...healthy. Even the squill, which I've read is really quite impossible to grow, seems in good shape."

"The Blessing," Nevena responded simply, "works wonders. Sending out the magic of one of the family who holds the land works wonders. It saturates the ground, the soil, and all living things, even the air. It's very powerful when done right. When the magic is miscast or when it's not present, things obviously likely won't work. It's the Rituals that truly lets us all plant as we can to such high quality and quantity as we do."

"I knew it was important," Hermione mused, "but I didn't realise how important. Truly, this is so remarkable. Why don't we learn about anything like this in school?"

"Most Pureblood families have private rituals," Viktor explained. "You'll be hard-pressed to find mention of them in textbooks, but most everyone knows basic facts about the families, like what they specialise in, their affinities and natural inclinations, and their alliances and business ties. It's simply something you grow up knowing."

Hermione's brows snapped together, her mouth tight. "So it's another cultural barrier. I'm muggleborn, and everyone just _assumes_ I know these things? I find that incredibly unfair. How am I supposed to find out about them if people don't even tell me they exist?"

Nevena got a look in her eye that Viktor knew meant trouble. "I'm certain Viktor would be willing to tell you about Bulgarian customs. They likely differ in some ways from British customs, but at the very least you'd know a bit more."

"Would you really?" Hermione asked eagerly, squeezing his arm. "I would really be so grateful."

"Of course."

"I think he should start you on social customs," Nevena added helpfully. "Things like courting, dating, and marriage customs, for example, might be particularly helpful."

"Oh, yes." The younger witch nodded seriously. "I'm rubbish at that stuff anyways. I've never paid much attention to those things."

Viktor tried to convey with a glare that he shot over Hermione's head just how much pain and suffering he was going to inflict upon his meddling, troublesome, _interfering_ retainer.

Nevena, unphased, merely shifted her weight to one foot. "I think Viktor would be an _excellent_ tutor. Really. He's very smart, and I daresay he knows quite a lot about those subjects in particular. Anyway, shall we finish up at the greenhouses?"

Hermione obliviously followed Nevena's scheming self along to the greenhouses as Viktor seethed in embarrassment, though his good mood returned as he watched Hermione fairly vibrate with excitement at the monolithic glass building before them.

As Nevena told Hermione about the contents of the greenhouse, Viktor took the time to look everything over. They all appeared healthy, drops of water appearing on the leaves of the chomping cabbages due to the humidity. The air was heavy with magic, fairly thrumming against his senses, and he revelled in the comforting feeling of growth and protection spells woven around him. He had felt this magic, or variations of it, his entire life. It was as comforting to him as the feeling of wind caressing his skin as he flew.

At some point, he had ceased following Nevena and Hermione, instead stopping by the dittany to smell its sweet, heady aroma. The plant was fragile and required careful conditions to flourish, but the wards around the rows it was planted in ensured its environment and temperature were optimised. He loved dittany, for all its fragility, because it had such diverse applications and abilities.

"Viktor?" Hermione stood at the head of the row, her hair curling around her face from the humidity. She looked more relaxed than he had seen her in some time, her posture easy and her eyes bright. "Nevena sent me to find you."

He huffed. Knowing her, she'd probably concocted some kind of excuse so that Hermione would _have_ to come get him. "Of course she did."

They crossed the distance to meet halfway, ending close enough that Viktor could see the variety of browns in her eyes, a kaleidoscope of pieces that made up a beautiful whole. Her face was soft, the lines of tension and uncertainty that had lined her eyes and mouth having smoothed out.

"Mia," he asked softly, "what's been bothering you so badly? I feel as though every time we've met the last few weeks, whether at the stadium or visiting Aigos Minos, you've been tense. Off. Won't you tell me what the matter is so I can help?"

For a moment, she glanced down and away before meeting his eyes once more. "I'm sorry."

Sorry? What was she sorry for?

She bit her lip as she met his eyes again, anxiety making the kaleidoscope of browns flat and dull. "I'm sorry, Viktor," she apologised. "It's not what you think. There's a lot I—it's not just one—" She stopped and rubbed a hand over her face.

"What is it?" he asked, growing alarmed. Taking another step forward toward her, he asked again, "What is it, Mia?"

"I…" Her hands clasped, her fingers twisting around each other. "It's...well. It's Svetlana, Viktor. I...I heard her. With Magellan."

Viktor frowned. "You heard them talking?"

"No." She shook her head vehemently. "Not _talking_ , Viktor. I _heard_ them." She looked at him like he was supposed to know what that meant. "Together. The night we took Milena to Aigos Minos, when I said goodbye—I came through the floo, and I was in the living room, and she—well." She cleared her throat. "I heard them upstairs."

Realisation dawned within him. With it the tranquility he had found was washed away, anger in its place. "Quickfoot and Svetlana?" His tone was dangerous in its softness. "Are you certain?"

She nodded miserably. "I didn't know what to do. Should I not have said anything? I asked Clara Krasmira, and they said that it was up to me, although Krasmira said it could be a scheme on Kosta's part to catch her in the act so that he could prepare divorce proceedings."

Biting her lip and twisting her hands together, she continued, "I just wasn't sure what to say, if anything—but not saying anything is just as bad, I thought, because inaction is a type of action itself."

"No. No, you should've told me."

How could Svetlana do such a thing? He had no preconceived notions about Quickfoot's upright moral standing, but Svetlana had a duty to both Kosta, the House of Krum, and her own family in maintaining even the most basic respect for her marriage to his brother.. A lot had been built on the marriage in terms of an alliance, but that was only a small part of what upset him.

She had betrayed Kosta. She had betrayed the family.

Something like that wasn't to be taken lightly.

He took a step back, his jaw clenched. "I need to go."

"Viktor?"

"I've got to tell Kosta." Thinking rapidly, he said, "You have Nevena here with you. Tell her to take you back to town. I'll meet you there—our family's main offices are on the main road."

"Viktor," she told him, distraught, "I'm sorry."

He moved forward, his fingers coming up to ghost across her cheek. "For what? For doing the right thing? For telling me so I can do what I must? No." He shook his head. "No, don't be sorry."

With that, he apparated away, the heat of her skin lingering on his fingertips as he reappeared at the family's private apparition point within the Krum family's offices.

It was only a moment's work to stride out of the room and down the hall. Without fanfare, he slammed open the door to Kosta's office.

"Brother, I must talk to you."

Kosta, who had been in the middle of penning something, glanced up at the interruption. Whatever he saw in Viktor's expression was cause enough for him to immediately rise from his seat and round the desk. "Viktor, what is it? What has happened?"

His throat was tight enough with rage that it took him a minute to get the words out. "It is Svetlana. That—that _kuchka_. Mia discovered your wife with Quickfoot when she returned home from visiting _Maika_."

Rather than looking distraught, or upset, Kosta relaxed, slipping his wand back into its holster from where he'd drawn it. "Ah. I see. That's it?"

Almost apoplectic, Viktor snarled, "What do you mean, ' _that's it'?_ That's precisely it! She is cheating on you with that mangy, despicable artefacts dealer and ruining the family name."

Kosta summoned a glass of water from the sideboard and took a long draught. "Don't be so dramatic. This kind of thing happens more than you know. As you should be aware, given the circles you yourself run in. Infidelity is commonplace, and honestly, this isn't the first time I've been made aware of it. I just don't care enough to do anything about it."

Dumbly, Viktor looked at his brother. "You don't...care enough to do anything about it?"

"As I said."

"But she's your wife!"

"She is the wife that father picked out for me," Kosta corrected. "It was an arranged marriage so we could get access to their plants, Viktor. You'd do well to remember that. Svetlana and I get along well enough so long as we don't make any comments on the others' activities and basically leave each other alone."

"And you're okay with her just...just...gallivanting around, sleeping with whomever she pleases?"

Kosta shrugged a shoulder, leaning against the desk. "Within reason. If it starts to affect any of the family businesses, that is, of course, another story."

Kosta's absolute nonreaction was throwing him for a hard loop. It almost seemed as if he were more upset about it than Kosta.

"And Quickfoot?" he sneered. "Does he get a pass, too? He thinks he can just come in and take one of our women as he pleases."

His brother's face darkened. "Now _that_ is another story. I've been keeping tabs on who Svetlana has been...liaising with. I need definitive proof of their involvement with her, but once I get it, they're enemies of the House of Krum on principle. If they ever so much as step out of line of what I would like, I can easily call them to a duel with proof of their, hm, _nefarious_ activities with my wife. That will bring them to heel easily."

Viktor stared at his brother. Trust Kosta to take a situation like this and turn it into a weapon as nuanced as blackmail. Honestly, he should have known better than to think his brother wouldn't have already been aware of the situation and had a plan in place. Pureblood marriages were considered fairly sacrosanct, which had made Krasmira's suggestion that Kosta had hired Quickfoot to help him get a clean divorce somewhat believable. In fact...

"Just to clarify," he added, "you did not, in fact, hire Quickfoot to sleep with Svetlana so you could get proof of her cheating and get a clean divorce?"

Kosta's calm expression broke, and surprise followed quickly by mirth spun across his face. "No," he replied evenly, "though that would have been a good idea if I were interested in it."

Viktor shifted on his feet. "I don't understand why you're staying with her. She's not a good witch, Kosta. Even if you and I aren't—even if you and I aren't as close as we have been in the past, and we don't always agree on things, I know that she isn't a good match for you. You deserve better than her, _brat mi_ , and you and I both know it."

Idly, Kosta traced the rim of his water glass. "I appreciate your concern, Viktor. Truly, it warms me to hear your worry for me." For once, he seemed completely sincere and straightforward. "However, my wife is not your concern."

"No, listen." He held up a hand when Viktor made to protest. "Svetlana currently suits my needs. Marriage to her ensured that we get an incredible deal on potions ingredients, which gives us an edge over other competitors. The business flourishes so that the family flourishes so that the family magic flourishes, which means the land flourishes and so does everyone who lives on it. What, did you think I didn't care about them?" he asked when Viktor looked at him dumbly. "We are, all of us, intertwined. I do my part as you do yours."

Viktor felt as if he'd never seen Kosta before. He'd always thought of Kosta as being solely bent on the success of the Krum empire, his motives purely economically based. In retrospect, that mode of thinking may have been short-sighted, as the impacts of the companies they owned did not stop with money. Even without taking into account the relationship between success, the family, and their people, the decisions that Kosta made solely about the businesses would affect the people working there.

Clearing his throat, he apologised somewhat humbly, "I feel as if I have done a disservice, _brat mi_ , thinking of you as mercenary."

Kosta pushed off against the desk, walking towards Viktor. "Do not make the mistake of thinking I am _not_ mercenary," he returned dryly. "I am simply mercenary with ulterior motives. Now, let me alleviate your fears about my marriage once and for all. If there ever comes a time when I meet a witch that I cannot live without, that I think could be my partner, that I prize above all, do not be mistaken that I would let her pass me by. I can divest myself of Svetlana, and I can negotiate deals with other suppliers to supplant the losses we would incur. Not easily, mind you, but I could."

Something within him unclenched. "You would not stay in the marriage simply because it is good for the family?"

"Would it be good for the family if I relegated myself to a lifetime of misery when I knew I had passed by something that would bring me untold happiness and fulfillment? No, I would not. And Vitya," here his brother's voice gentled, "I would not make the same mistakes as our parents, should it become my place to have some kind of dominion over your marriage."

"I have seen the damage it has wrought on us all," Kosta continued somberly. "You, me, _Maika_ , and perhaps even Father. No, I would not repeat their mistakes, nor shall I make you when it is your time to make a decision. Though," Kosta commented slyly, his head tilting to the side, "I am thinking you have already, with our little Mia."

He flushed. "Mia is...she is all I could ever want, though I could never have imagined her as being good for me. We are very different, and yet very similar. She fills places and needs within me that I didn't realize I had."

"She is a very interesting witch," Kosta mused, tapping his water glass with a long finger. "Did you know she is of muggle nobility?"

He was hard pressed to contain his shock. "She is?" She had never, not once, hinted as much. Come to think of it, she had never really discussed her parents in much depth, though he knew they haunted her.

The older wizard nodded, his black hair gleaming in the light. "Yes. She mentioned it to me rather offhandedly at the Ball in the context of another conversation. It does explain her poise, however, given that she is able to easily navigate Pureblood society without seeming to realize it, though it's her intrinsic goodness paves the way for her with most people. I enjoyed conversing with her, as she is clearly very intelligent, but I am also very intrigued by the idea of an alliance with her family. We have some business in the Muggle world, but a connection with her family could bring us some kind of power or influence we could use to strengthen ties in that area."

As a blessing, it was certainly very oblique, but Kosta was hardly the type of wizard to be straightforward. "Thank you, brother," he said formally. "I have leave to court her, then?"

At this, Kosta laughed. "Ah, Viktor," he sighed, "yes. Yes, you can, though I would hope you would have done regardless of what I said if you truly feel that way about her. It's not _my_ blessing that you need, though, but rather Father's."

"Father." His mouth curled into a snarl. "As if his blessing matters."

"He is the head of our family," Kosta reprimanded, mouth going flat. "Show him some respect."

"Why would I do that? He respects nothing but himself and his greed."

"Because you must. He is the one who holds your future in his hands."

"Going to sell me off to the highest bidder at his convenience, hm?" Viktor shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes.

"I don't think there's a betrothal contract in force for you yet," Kosta told him, leaning against the back of his desk. "I've tried to prevent that as best as I can so you can carve your own path, but you know Father listens to no counsel except his own. I can only do so much."

"I know." He sighed, the anger powering him suddenly vanishing as fast as it had come. "Do I ever. Perhaps it might help if I wait awhile to formally ask him so that his anger about playing in the Cup has passed. And...and perhaps if I perform well in school or at the TriWizard Tournament, then he will be more predisposed toward granting such a request? Perhaps then I could ask."

Months. It would be months before he could ask for a formal blessing, but it didn't mean he was going to wait. No, he would continue with his plans, and if his father became aware of it and confronted him, he would address it then.

However, Viktor didn't foresee that happening. Grigor Krum did not often deign to get involved in Viktor's affairs, except to command him to do something or to disapprove of his activities, so Viktor thought that the time difference wouldn't be a huge problem. Likely as not, his father wouldn't be aware of his and Hermione's relationship until Viktor brought it up.

"Waiting for a better time would be wise, especially if you can do something that would please him." Kosta sighed. "Though I wish it weren't necessary for you to have think and act like this, it is a good approach to take. And really, Viktor, I do think that she will be of benefit to the family. If we can learn enough about her own family—about their connections, their alliances, their connections—we can more easily persuade father that she is an acceptable match."

"Right." Viktor nodded. "I can do that."

"Good." Kosta paused, then, before venturing, "Viktor?"

"Yes?"

"I don't just like her for her potential alliances and benefits, you know." Kosta's mouth held the faint hint of a smile. "I like her because of how you look when you're around her and how you act when you talk of her."

"I…" Viktor found himself at a loss for words.

"Don't worry about the _when_ s and the logistics. You're young. There's no rush."

"I won't," he promised. "I just...what if someone else realises her value? What if she found someone she likes better than me?"

His brother's smile grew and became amused. "I sincerely doubt the last will be an issue. Now, make sure you have a gift from the family vaults when you ask to court her. Women like things like that."

Viktor nodded. "I was already planning on it."

"Excellent." He reached out and lightly gripped Viktor's shoulder, giving it a squeeze before stepping back and returning to his desk. "If we're quite finished discussing our women, I have a meeting in…." he checked the time. "Twenty-two minutes that I must finish preparing for."

Being so dismissed, Viktor left the office, his emotions a wild mix of leftover anger, elation, and uncertainty. He couldn't count the last time he had had such a conversation with Kosta, where they spoke candidly and honestly with each other. More often than not, they tended to come to loggerheads with each other, clashing over things.

Some of the blame for that certainly lay at his feet, he reflected, if he had simply taken the time to better understand his brother, who did not seem so unreasonable after all, perhaps that wouldn't have been the case. It could be that he had simply written off Kosta as a copycat of their father too quickly, dismissing him. He may have done Kosta a disservice.

Long after he had returned home for the night and prepared for bed, he remained thoughtful. If he had misunderstood Kosta's character and motivations so badly, who else was he misinterpreting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A Dramatic Retelling of Yesterday (featuring me, a cameo by Constance, far too many words)**
> 
> _Me, at about 10am: Constance, what do you think about me adding in four paragraphs here about xyz? I know it's done but I think this might help with that thing we talked about._  
>  _C: I like it._  
>  _Me: Okay, I'll write it out and you can check it out!_  
>  _Me, at around 10pm after work has wound up: Okay, time for that quick edit, a little double checky, and then I post._  
>  _**Spongebob noise of "sometime later"**_  
>  _Me, looking up to check the time: Right. Why did I think it would be four paragraphs? It's never just four paragraphs with this fic. It's 1583 words, and it's now midnight. Too late for checking. I'm gonna have to post tomorrow._  
>  _Me: Dammit. They're gonna kill me._
> 
>   
> Notes: Sorry it's late, but here it is, plus an additional 1500 words! I also will be uploading newly edited versions of chs. 27.5 (interlude), 28, and 29 because I got caught up doing that today. If you get additional updates, that is why.
> 
> Regarding the series update: This work is now officially part of a series. The sequel is fully outlined (for the third time) and underway! It's a doozy. I will not be sharing the summary until this is fully wound up, as it is too spoilery :) 
> 
> Cheers!


	37. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warnings: Explicit violence, violence against a minor**

Hermione was folding one of her favourite shirts to put in her trunk when she heard the familiar flap of wings. The window was open, so the gorgeous tawny owl easily alighted on the back of Hermione's chair before politely extending a leg.

The elegant script on the front of the envelope addressing the letter to _Miss Hermione Granger_ was one she had seen countless times over the last few years on her Transfiguration essays.

Bemused, she carefully broke the seal and unfolded the neatly creased parchment.

_Miss Granger,_

_I hope you have enjoyed your summer thus far, even as you have been busily learning under Mistress Lazarov. I have had the opportunity to speak with both her and the Headmaster in the last week about the matter of your continuing education at Hogwarts. As a result of your studies this summer, you have in all likelihood surpassed your current yearmates in quite a few subjects. (I would be remiss, I feel, if I did not note that many of the faculty have considered your skills beyond your years prior to this.) Because of this, we have seen fit to adapt your placement to better fit your true expertise._

_While you will be required to take placement exams to better assess your aptitude, I have already spoken with Professor Snape, who informed me of the_ Domini Permutatio _, or Master's Exchange, already agreed upon between him and Mistress Lazarov. Instead of taking Potions with other students, you will instead complete an individual practicum, where your knowledge will be taught and subsequently applied in short order._

_This change will allow you to work with Madam Pomfrey during the blocks normally allotted to Potions. While she does not have the same certifications as Mistress Lazarov (being a Mediwitch rather than a Healer), she has decades of experience that I think you will do very well to learn under. Some things, after all, cannot be taught from books._

_Based on the brief descriptions provided to me by Mistress Lazarov of the work you have been doing, I believe you will likely advance to sixth form for Charms and perhaps fifth or sixth as well for Transfiguration and Herbology. These placements, of course, will be confirmed by assessments we will ask you to come and take in the last few days of August prior to the start of term._

_Knowing you, I expect you will be a mixture of excitement and apprehension due to being separated from Messrs Potter and Weasley in class. It is true that you will not see them as frequently, but I am certain you will be able to maintain your bonds outside of the academic environment._

_Truthfully, Miss Granger, I think this new curriculum will suit you very well, indeed. I can speak for us all at Hogwarts when I say that are looking forward to what you, as the youngest Apprentice to walk the halls of Hogwarts in some decades, will do with yourself._

_As always, I am proud to call you one of my own Gryffindors._

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts_

_Head of Gryffindor house_

_Chief Professor of Transfiguration_

Hermione exhaled slowly as she reread the lines of elegantly scripted ink to make sure she had understood it correctly.

To make such changes to her timetable must have required a truly monumental effort, given that it would span multiple years, include an individualized practicum with Master Snape, and add in time with Madam Pomfrey. The idea that her teachers thought so highly of her to be willing to do that made her breath catch and her eyes suspiciously damp.

It was also quite clear that all this had occurred because of Krasmira Lazarov, who had once thought of Hermione as a probable waste of time, saying something along the lines of, "I do not have the patience to train a girl who is only here to trail after men on brooms."

And yet, despite that harsh and unforgiving beginning, it had been Krasmira who had taken Hermione under her wing, encouraged her when she had faltered, given her a model to look up to, and demanded no less than her best.

That was far more than could be said about Sirius, who continued to disappear when needed, provided empty, convoluted explanations ( _loose ends?_ What loose ends?), and engaged in not only worrisome but also problematic behaviours. Over and over, Sirius had failed to provide what Hermione had needed, even at the most basic level.

How strange, she thought to herself, that she would embrace a witch who she had never met before the beginning of the summer when she struggled to do the same with a wizard that was embraced by those she respected and loved.

The timer she had set earlier in the day for the last batch of Polyjuice went off, high chimes singing through the air. After she clattered down to the basement, she cleared the timer and looked down at the brown, mudlike potion. Unstoppering the phial that held a lock of Magellan Quickfoot's hair, she wondered at what, if anything, she should tell Harry about Sirius, who had looked at the older wizard as though he were the moon and stars made flesh right before he made his daring escape on Buckbeak.

Even in Harry's letters to Hermione over the summer, it had been clear that the two of them were writing to each other, and that Harry was eagerly soaking up every word the wizard had written him. Privately, she rather thought it would break Harry's heart if Sirius were to be a disappointment as so many adults in his life had been before, so she thought, perhaps, to give him a chance at making a true go of it before saying anything.

And if she _did_ tell Harry about all the things Sirius had (or hadn't) done, what if he didn't believe her? What if he grew angry and ignored her because she chose to warn him? As he and Ron had demonstrated before, if they disliked what she said or what she did, they could simply ignore her, at which point she would be largely on her own again.

Alone, and lonely.

Really, it was all for the better that she be cautious about saying anything. Chances were that things could work out for the best without her saying a thing. It could be that once he was cleared of any wrongdoings and settled firmly into normal life in Britain that his strange, inexplicable behaviour and activities would cease.

No, she wouldn't say anything, not at the outset. She'd wait and see.

Just as she finished decanting the Polyjuice, she heard the sound of the floo activating and the sound of someone stepping out. "I've got your potion ready!" she called through the open door as she grabbed a few doses and clambered up the stairs. "You've got excellent...timing…"

It wasn't Sirius.

Instead, the two wizards she had met briefly awhile back were there, brushing soot and floor powder off their robes. "Mister Avery and...Mulciber, was it?" she asked politely, though she grabbed her wand and held it at her side. "What brings you here today?"

"Miss Granger," Avery approached her, an expression of concern on his face. "I wish I was here for a social engagement, but I'm afraid I have grave news. It's Sirius, you see."

A frisson of alarm ran down her spine. "Sirius?" She moved toward them. "Is there something wrong?"

Mulciber hesitated. Sympathetically, he said, "I'm not certain how to tell you this, but I'm afraid he's quite unwell."

"Unwell? Is he injured?" She glanced toward the basement where she kept her supply of potions that she had made for practice and kept in case she needed them. "Let me get my potions."

"I appreciate your willingness to come with us. He was asking for you."

"Of course," she responded at once. "He's my—" Her what? Her guardian? He certainly wasn't much of one. "Well. He's important."

They waited for her as she grabbed an empty bag from upstairs in her room before going down to the basement, selecting different phials of potions that she thought would be important and carefully placing them inside. It was truly unfortunate that she didn't have a proper potions kit, as it had separate, padded slots that would protect the glass phials from breaking against each other, but hopefully this would do.

Quickly alighting the stairs, she returned in short order. "I'm ready."

Avery offered his arm, all courtesy. "Are you familiar with Side-Along?"

"Yes. I'm a bit disoriented and nauseous afterward, but I've done it a few times before."

"Perfect." His lips curled into a satisfied smile. Glancing over at Mulciber, he asked, "Shall we meet you there?"

Mulciber nodded, and moments later Hermione was twisting through the air.

They landed with a thud, and she bent over as the now-familiar sensations of nausea and dizziness swept over her. Luckily, she wasn't sick to her stomach this time, and she straightened up a minute or so later.

They were in a large clearing nestled against the bottom of a cliff, a small waterfall crashing into the surface of a lake. Close to the cliffside, a strange arrangement of rocks were laid around some kind of...stone table. Maybe an old rock formation that had been repurposed as a picnic table? It was all very idyllic, but she was too busy searching for Sirius in the late afternoon light to pay too much attention.

"Sirius?" she called. When there was no answer, she turned around, looking at the two wizards standing there. "Where is he?"

Avery, who had yet to pocket his wand, flicked it at her, his expression placid. " _Expelliarmus."_

"Hey!" she protested as her wand flew out of her hand. "Why did you do that? I'll need my wand to help Sirius."

Mulciber laughed, the noise deep and rolling and very, very unsettling in its inappropriateness. "You won't need it, little witch. I promise you that."

"But I need it to heal Siri–" Stopping short, she closed her eyes slowly. "Sirius is fine, isn't he?"

Avery nodded, tucking a hand in the pocket of his summer coat like he was standing in a drawing room at a tea party. "He's right as rain. In fact, he'll be here in just a moment. We invited him to join us."

The realization that something was very wrong crawled up her spine. When Sirius had mentioned _tying up loose ends_ , was this what he had meant? "Why am I here? And where is Sirius? Does he know about you bringing me here?"

"So many questions, Miss Granger. And yet...do you think you're deserving of them? Sirius has told us of how...curious you are." He said _curious_ like it was something unpleasant. "Don't fret, my dear." He reached out and chucked her under the chin. "It will all become perfectly clear in just a moment. In fact... _Diffindo_."

A searing pain cut across her face, and she cried out. When she touched her face gingerly, they came away sticky with blood. She glared at the older wizard. "What was that for? That really hurt."

His cheeks creased as he gave a slow, smug smile. "A bit slow on the uptake, aren't you?" he asked. "That was the point."

Her pulse raced in her throat as she looked at Avery, who was staring at her with an unsettling gleam in his eye. Mulciber appeared largely indifferent to the events occurring: he had gone over to the picnic table and begun flipping through some kind of notebook and examining a clear phial.

"What do you want from me?" Though she tried to appear unphased, her voice cracked. "Please—I'm sure that whatever is going on, we can work it out. We can work together on it."

"Why, Miss Granger, I'm absolutely certain it will. Your participation is pivotal in the day's activities. In fact, you're the last thing we needed to get this ritual started."

"Ritual? What ritual?" Her heart, which was already thudding against her chest, began to race.

Mulciber put down the phial he had been holding and finally joined the conversation, his eyes dark and flat. "It doesn't matter, you foolish girl. You'll be dead all the same by the end of it."

"Dead?" She swallowed.

"Now, now Frederick, that wasn't very nice," Avery chided. In the same breath, he flicked his wand at Hermione, who flinched in reaction. " _Incarcerous._ "

As ropes spun out of his wand and wound around her in punishingly tight loops, Avery locked eyes with her. "Unfortunately, Miss Granger, we required someone of your…purity. Pure of mind, pure of heart, pure of body. Based on what Sirius has told us when he's mentioned you, you seemed to fit those requirements quite well, indeed."

"How do you know?" she challenged desperately. "I could be impure!"

Avery nodded. "That could very well be true. But fret not. We have a little test for that." His mouth flattened into a small smirk. "It's almost like a ritual before the ritual. Let's get started, shall we?"

It was as he floated her struggling, screaming body over to the picnic table—an altar, it was an _altar_ —that she realized that the chances of her getting out of this were slim to none. No matter how much she writhed and lashed out as they chained her to the flat, grey rock or how much she pleaded as they made shallow cuts on her torso and throat and collected blood as it seeped out, they didn't budge.

"Please," she pleaded. "Please, let me go. What can I do—"

"Perfect." Mulciber announced in satisfaction as the blood, which he had poured into the phial he had been preparing earlier, turned absolutely crystalline clear.

"Excellent." Avery eyed her like she was a pet who had just performed a very difficult trick. "Miss Granger, I can't tell you how pleased I am to let you know what a great service you'll be doing for wizarding kind. Once our Dark Lord has been summoned from beyond the veil, he will be most comfortable indeed in your body until we can make his anew. A more perfect vessel we could not ask for."

"I don't _care_ about your Dark Lord," Hermione spat at him, "whoever he is. I'll stay in my own body, thank you very much."

Avery tutted. "Sirius would not enjoy hearing you say that. After all, it was because he introduced us to you that we thought of you immediately when we read the requirements. You have him to thank for this."

"No." She shook her head vehemently in denial. "No, he's not a part of this. He can't be."

Mulciber laughed. "You really are that naive. Unbelievable. Well, no matter. You can believe as you wish, though when he appears here shortly I think you'll see with your own eyes that your belief has been misplaced."

"He would never help you find a ritual for resurrecting some dark lord. He was put in prison wrongly for being falsely involved with another!"

Avery tapped his wand against her face, stuffing her mouth with a gag, as he replied, amused, "The same one, in fact."

The same...dark lord?

Avery's eyes, a light hazel, gleamed with good humour as he read the dawning horror in her expression. "Yes, Miss Granger. The Dark Lord we seek to resurrect is one and the same. It is Lord Voldemort who shall return this eve."

The wizard appeared ready to say something else, though his attention was snagged by something Hermione could not see. "Ah, Sirius. Good. You're finally here. It certainly took you long enough. Let's get started."

"Started on what, exactly?" Hermione would recognize Sirius's lazily amused tone anywhere, and her stomach sank. "I think I'm a bit late to the party it appears we're having. I had a damned hard time tracking you down."

The sound of his voice broke something within her. All summer, she had been helping him. All summer, she had been sacrificing things so that he could get Peter. And somehow, some way, he had been embroiled in _this_.

Had catching Peter ever really been his goal, or was it a smoke screen for something even more nefarious than Hermione had ever considered? Had Sirius played them all? Had he _actually_ been part of Voldemort's side all along?

Responding to Sirius's question, Avery began, "Tracking us down? Didn't you get my message? No matter. We finally found the ritual—"

"No. Don't tell him, Louis," Mulciber cut in, his voice rife with distrust. "I'm still not certain that he's _truly_ with us. If he didn't get our message, then _why_ did he come to find us?"

"I've killed Pettigrew," Sirius announced blandly. At that, Hermione closed her eyes. It appeared Sirius had become the very thing Harry had wanted to prevent him from becoming back in the Shrieking Shack: a killer. "If I was truly just using you all to do that," Sirius went on, "wouldn't I be gone by now?"

"I still don't trust you." Mulciber retorted. "I need proof that you really mean it, that you're really intent on bringing the Dark Lord back."

The sound of grass being crushed underfoot alerted her to someone, presumably Sirius's approach. Reasonably, he asked, "Why would you send me a message if you didn't trust me?"

Avery, sounding a bit miffed for the first time, chimed in, "We had a difference of opinion, he and I. You learn the measure of a man when you maim and kill together, which we've done. He didn't quite have the same amount of trust in you as I did, however."

Sirius turned to Mulciber. "How can I convince you that I want his return as much as you do? I am here with you now, ready to do whatever it takes."

Hermione began to tremble. _Whatever it takes?_

"The girl," Mulciber said suddenly, malicious glee sparking in his eyes. " _You_ can be the one to sacrifice her."

"The girl—?" Sirius's confused question stopped short, and only moments later, Hermione was greeted by the sight of him leaning over her, his black hair hanging in waves around his face. "Hermione."

When he reached out to touch her, she turned her face away sharply, a muffled sound of protest escaping her. An instant later, his fingertips lightly grazed her cheek.

"She's perfect for the ritual," Avery told him eagerly, "which calls for someone pure of mind, body, and spirit. We've already checked it."

"I still fail to believe that you found something that will do as we wish," Sirius replied doubtfully. "When I ran into Peter, he was in the midst of trying to procure a children's book about mythologies around the world and Bulgarian gods and goddesses, of all things. He had the misplaced notion that it held relevant information. I found that very hard to believe."

"Anything is possible." Avery carelessly waved a hand. "He was likely seeking information about the rumored sacred grounds of the Bulgarian deities, Morana, the goddess of death, in particular." His tone grew smug. "I found their location in a tome I acquired from a shop in Plovdiv, where I was a few weeks ago. This place, where we are right now, is where the connection to her is supposed to be at its strongest."

" _This_ place?" Sirius retorted, disbelieving. "I'll believe it when I see it. Here, hand the book over. I want to see what it says."

The sound of pages flipping made the entire event more surreal. Had they truly been researching this, as if it were some kind of bizarre group project at Hogwarts? She renewed her struggle, the rough rope digging against her skin and agitating the cut down her sternum.

"Looks good," Sirius finally commented at last. The sound of a book being shut came moments before he handed it over her and back to Avery. "I can see why it's taken you this long to prepare. It's...complex."

"To say the least. The ritual circle was most difficult, but we've got it. Frederick's just gone and closed it, so don't do any magic within the boundaries. It could wreck the energy field." Almost drolly, Avery said, "Honestly, with the amount of magic that we've poured into it in the last week or two, it could kill us all if we're not careful."

"Of course. We wouldn't want that." Sirius peered down into her eyes again, his mouth pursed. "Say, Louis, just how intact must she be for the ritual?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Avery shrug. "Alive, though I would prefer to keep the physical injuries at minimum, as I'll heal them before the ritual so our Lord has a healthy vessel at the outset. The amount of magic that will be channeled through her would likely clear her of any magical injury, however."

"Magical injury, you say?" Sirius arched a brow. "Hm. I see. That's good, then. I'd like to take the time to... take some of my anger out on her. I'll keep it in the limits."

"If you must." Avery sighed. "You're so uncivilised. Just take her outside of the ritual circle."

"Actually," Mulciber said thoughtfully from somewhere around the edge of the altar by Hermione's feet, "the ritual feeds off magical energy, the Darker the better. If you are so intent on toying with the girl, make sure to keep it Dark."

Sirius huffed a laugh. "You never make it easy, do you? I should cause minimal physical injury, but I have to use Dark magic, and the stronger the better?"

"Don't act as if you haven't been doing things like this all summer," Mulciber snapped irritably. "Just _Crucio_ the girl several times over and be done with it. You get to have your fun, I get help activating the circle, and we all win."

"A perfect solution," Avery piped up, apparently the mediator of this strange, twisted group.

"When the circle goes live, I'll have to let you back in," Mulciber went on. "But when I summon you, you must come immediately. The circle will be hard to hold long enough to complete the ritual as is because it requires so much power."

Agreeably, Sirius said, "As you wish."

A moment later, Hermione experienced the absolutely horrifying, jarring feeling of being petrified and lifted in the air as if she were no more than an inanimate object, Sirius's magic directing her body wherever he wished it. He'd left the ropes and the gag. She was truly, absolutely, at his mercy.

Not that there would be much mercy to receive, it seemed.

_Just Crucio the girl several times over and be done with it._

_Don't act as if you haven't been doing things like this all summer._

Things had never been so clear to Hermione as they were now. All this time, she had been aiding a monster.

Moments Hermione was placed down softly in damp grass. Sirius appeared a moment later, gently working the gag out of her mouth with long fingers.

"I'm sorry," he whispered quickly as he did so, his expression agonised. "I'm more sorry than you'll ever know. But I've got to do this. I've got to set things right for us."

"For you, you mean," she spat. "Is this what you meant by _tidying up loose ends?_ "

"No!" He exclaimed in horror, as if this entire thing were something he hadn't been party to, as if he hadn't _told_ them about her over the summer, as if he hadn't _planted the idea of using her as a sacrifice_ in both Avery and Mulciber's minds. "I would never have done—"

He stopped, cursed, and straightened. "Dammit, it doesn't matter. I can't say much more. I don't have the time. I have to do this so they believe me, but I promise, I'll do it for as little a time as I can."

"Oh, because just a little bit of the _Cruciatus_ makes it more bearable," she retorted caustically.

"There is nothing, not ever, Sirius Black, that can make this right."

"It will all work out." His own voice was shaking as he tried to reassure her—or was it himself? "After all this is over—I swear, I'll explain everything, and you'll forgive me, and things can all be as they should."

Her mouth trembled, tears spilling from her face as she watched him draw his wand and point it at her. "I don't care what explanation you have for this." Her voice fairly vibrated as the words fairly wrenched themselves out of her throat. "I've only ever tried to help you. This whole summer, you've used me all along and it seems _very_ clear to me that you're going to use me right up until I'm dead. There is nothing, not _anything_ , that you can tell me to make me forgive you."

He pressed his lips together. "I'm going to make it up to you. Somehow, I'm going to make this right."

The pale ash of his wand caught the light of the dying sun and glowed gold as he softly breathed, " _Crucio."_

At first, she thought nothing had happened. There was a strange howling noise in the background, one that sounded like an animal who had been caught in a trap screaming in pain, but it was distant and far off. She waited to feel something like the textbooks had described, to feel like she was dying, like her bones were being crushed and her mind was being pulverized, but it was strangely absent.

That was when she realized the animalistic screaming was coming from her mouth, and then a wave of electricity, raw and jagged and sharp pulsed through her and lit up every nerve in her body, so severe, so crushing, so obliterating that she didn't even have the wherewithal to wish that she were dead.

It felt like it went on forever, like she would grow old and die here under the tender mercy of Sirius's wand and his whispered _Crucio_. Her bones were being ground to dust and her muscles stripped to ligaments under the unrelenting whip of fire and heat and pain, her mind folding in on itself until all that was left of her was a gibbering grey mass—

She was floating in pitch blackness, not a flicker of light to be seen. It was soft, almost, a tender mercy that enfolded her. Idly, she wondered if she had died under Sirius's ministrations. It might be better if she had, so that she wouldn't have to face whatever was coming for her.

But slowly, stars of light winked into existence, stringing together to form a hazy mirage of reds and yellows and golds. For a moment, she stared, uncomprehending, before realising she was staring at the sunset as it spread out above her. And that feeling of softness that had cradled her body? It was the grass underneath her, though each blade felt like a needle to her overstimulated nerves. And the voices, dim and distant in her ears...She knew what voices did. They cast spells that brought pain and suffering and hurt and no _shedidn'twant—_

Hermione didn't realise she was screaming again, a high, thin thread of sound, until Sirius slapped her cheek lightly. She flinched away from him, her entire body quivering, as his face crumpled.

"Merlin." His voice was tight and raw as if he'd been the one screaming. "Please. _Please_ , you've got to stop. I'm sorry. I'm _sorry."_ As he apologised once more, he masked his words by pretending to check the tightness of the ropes binding her. "I'm going to explain everything one day, when I'm free and you're happy and we're all back home. You'll see, then, why I had to do this. It's not what you think, I swear it. It's for the future. For you, for me, for Harry."

She had to work at remembering how to speak, her tongue thick and uncooperative. When she got it to work, she whispered, "Doesn't...matter. Won't...forgive...evil."

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he next spoke, his voice shook the slightest bit. "You'll understand. You will."

Hermione didn't know if he was trying to convince himself or her of that. Either way, she doubted anything would explain away what just happened, let alone what else he had been up to over the last few months.

_Don't act as if you haven't been doing things like this all summer._

"For now," he continued, "I'm going to take this all away. You won't remember anything."

Behind them, Mulciber gave a shout, and Hermione _felt_ the wave of magic, Dark and cloying, sweep over them. The field had been activated.

"Bring the girl!" Mulciber commanded, his voice tight with strain.

Sirius cursed softly and closed his eyes. "Fuck. It's all gone tits up, hasn't it?" When he opened them again, resolve hardened his gaze. "I'll get us out of this. I'm a survivor. I'll do what I must."

He brought up his wand, his damnable, horrible wand, so that the tip pointed between her eyes. As she shrank away from him, a pale, light began to glow. " _Obliviate."_


	38. Chapter 38

For all that Viktor was facing the biggest game of his life the next day, he felt strangely calm and settled, almost eerily so. He woke up and ate the enormous breakfast Mippy and Bippy placed in front of him before apparating to the stadium a bit earlier than usual, feeling rested and prepared.

Everyone else was already there as well, a strange, tense hush in the air as they hovered above the pitch and talked quietly amongst themselves. Islov, it appeared, had not yet shown himself, presumably tucked away in his office poring over the playbook.

"Is this really happening? Did we make it to the finals?" Vasily asked. "I can't believe it. Someone pinch me."

Dutifully, Alexei reached over and did the job. Vasily yelped and swatted his hand aside, glaring at the Chaser. "I wasn't _serious_."

Alexei shrugged, smirking. "You asked."

"You're all a bunch of children," Clara declared loftily, one leg swinging idly as she lazily hooked her other foot around one of the broom's stirrups.

Vasily laughed. "As if you and Pyotr are any better."

"We are, in fact, better." Pyotr flew over and parked his broom so close to Clara's that their thighs touched. Tugging on her plait, he slung an arm around her shoulders. "We only have mature, adult exchanges."

"Oh yeah?" Vasily challenged. "Pray tell, _maestro_ , what kind of 'mature, adult exchanges' do you speak of? I think we need an example."

"Of course you do. You'd have no idea how to do anything if you weren't copying me." Pyotr sniffed haughtily. "Watch and learn."

Disentangling himself from Clara, he executed a neat one-eighty so that he faced the Chaser directly. His mouth set in a determined line before he straightened up and took her hands in his, his normally light-hearted expression growing serious.

Next to Viktor, Zograf's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "Is this...Is he really—"

Suddenly, Ivan knocked his broom into Zograf's, who glared at the other wizard as the move jostled him. With a false smile and a clearly scheming expression, Ivan backed off a bit and gave Zograf some space. "My bad. It was a mistake."

"Clara," Pyotr was saying intently as he ignored the byplay between the other players, his focus exclusively on the witch before him, "I know that I've asked you this before, and I know that you've said no because you didn't think I was serious. But this is me being serious for once in my life, so I hope you'll listen."

Wide-eyed and slightly pink, Clara glanced down at their intertwined hands and back up as Pyotr went on, "I've admired you for ages. You're beautiful and smart and amazing, but more than that, you're my best friend. There's nobody I want to spend time with more than you. You challenge me. You make me want to be better." His smile was small but notable for its softness. "I want to spend all my time with you, on the pitch and off of it. Take a chance on me, _slŭnchitse_. You won't regret it. Let's go to _Le Maison de Italienne_ in France, like you've always wanted, and have dinner together. I know we'll be good together—just give me the opportunity to show you how we could be, and I think you'll see it too."

Clara looked around at all of them, seeming to realise that Pyotr had essentially prostrated himself in front of the entire team. Frowning, she sighed. "You make it hard, Pyotr. So hard. I've seen you woo women before, and you always say things like this."

"It's different," he protested, running a hand down her arm before taking up her hand again. "Surely, you must know that. It's been you, Clara. It's _always_ been you."

Her brows furrowed as her eyes searched his. "Are you serious? Like, really, truly serious? This isn't just some...overblown prank?"

"No." He swallowed. "No prank. I assure you, I wouldn't be doing this if it was just a joke." Huffing, he said, "There are a lot more ways I could get a laugh out of everyone than doing this."

Everyone collectively held their breath as she thought, and thought, and thought some more, clearly conflicted. Finally, her expression eased and she breathed out, "Okay. Okay, yeah. Let's go to France."

The entire team exploded at that, everyone making various expressions of dismay except for Ivan, who was whooping and hollering as he did a quick vertical loop with his broom. "Everyone pay up! I had today on the calendar."

"Wait, wait. Pay up?" Perplexed, Pyotr looked around at everyone.

"Yeah, _tupak_." Alexei smirked. "You think we weren't betting on this the entire time? You are both idiots if you think we didn't see the writing on the wall. You've been pathetic and obvious since we were in the qualifiers—it was just Clara we weren't sure about. But Zograf heard her tell something to Kras months ago that made us think you had a fighting chance, so the pool was born."

"If you had just been two days later," Viktor groused, though he was smiling, "I would've won. _Two days,_ Pyotr. Couldn't you have just waited?"

"Why are you all sitting here like gossiping fishwives?" Islov questioned with his trademark scowl, having finally emerged from his office and flown over from the other side of the pitch.

"Sometimes there are more important things than Quidditch," Ivan declared grandly, his victory clearly having gone straight to his head. "Pyotr finally asked Clara out and she said yes."

Islov's scowl deepened, and he growled, "I was two weeks too early. Who won?"

"You too?" Clara gasped, scandalized, as Ivan smugly replied, "I did."

Islov glowered at Ivan, who winced as he realised that gloating may not have been his best idea, before turning to Clara. "I'm not blind, Ivanova. I have eyes. Although," here he glared at Pyotr, "I would have expected more class from you, boy. Asking her on the Quidditch pitch? Tch."

"Hey!" Pyotr protested, looking vaguely offended. "I took the opportunity when it came."

A thought occurred to Viktor, and he smirked. "Has anyone told Krasmira?"

Silence reigned as the team collectively took in the fact someone would have to tell the witch she had lost the pot. "You do it." Zograf turned to Viktor. "You're the one who brought it up."

"What," Viktor taunted, outright grinning at the Keeper, "afraid of the dragon?"

Zograf sniffed and ran a hand over his shorn head. "I'm not stupid. She'll hiss and snap and snarl because she didn't win the pot. I don't want to have her berate me during my evaluation. You know how unpleasant she can make it."

He winced at the thought. "Good point. I don't particularly want to go tell her."

Alexei clapped him on the back and cheerfully proclaimed, "Too late now, my friend! You've volunteered. Might as well go now."

"You can also get cleared to play before we start for the day." Islov glanced up at the sky and then back at them. "Why are you all here so early, anyways?"

"Because we're _excited_ , Coach," Clara replied easily. "Rumour has it that we have a big match tomorrow?"

"Don't get sassy with me, little girl," Islov warned, though for once he sounded good-natured. "If there's one thing you should've learned…"

Viktor lost the rest of his response to the wind as he made his way to the Healing Halls, energy surging through him at the thought of seeing Hermione. She'd been thrilled about the news.

But even though he was glad for Pyotr and Clara, the smallest bit of jealousy niggled in his mind. He didn't want to just relay the happy news. No, he wanted his _own_ moment with Hermione, just like the other two had had. All he had done was think and think and think about it, considering the pros and cons of doing it before the Cup and fretting about what might come of a confession.

Maybe the time for thinking was over, he thought, his grip tightening on his broom. Maybe it was time for action. Yes, action sounded good. _Doing_ sounded good. He could just march in there and ask for a moment, pull her aside, and hand over his heart, though, really, she'd had it for a long time already. But this way, at least he'd be put out of his misery.

While he didn't have the gifts that he had so carefully picked out for her with him, she didn't seem like the kind of witch to place material worth over sincere sentiment. And true, all his concerns about her reaction and about Islov and such were still valid, but...dammit. If Pyotr could do it, then so could he! He wouldn't pussyfoot around it any longer.

Perhaps if he asked for a moment alone _before_ the exam? No, no, _after_ the exam. Because if she turned him down, then at least they wouldn't have to endure the painful awkwardness that was sure to ensure. At least he knew what he was going to say: Zhiva knew he had turned the phrases over enough in his head.

His stride slowed as he approached the entrance, his eyes narrowing. The entrance was still closed off, which was quite uncharacteristic given that they were supposed to begin their wellness checks so they could be cleared to play. Viktor frowned, placing his hand against the opaque window. When nothing happened, he knocked, knowing they could see him on the other side.

A long moment later, the window vanished, and he was greeted by the strange sight of Krasmira kneeling by Hermione, who was sitting on the side of the bed.

"—just a little bit under the weather," his brown-haired witch was telling her Mistress. "I'm really okay, I promise."

"Hermione," the Healer replied with uncharacteristic gentleness, even as she looked at the vitals charm hovering next to her, "this is not a simple illness." And then without so much as a glance in his direction, she directed, "Viktor, please tell the team that our evaluations will have to take place in the afternoon."

Hermione stirred at that, her head slowly turning to face him. Alarm spiralled through him at the sight of her face, which was pale and haggard. Her eyes, which normally gleamed so brightly, were dull and hazy. "Viktor? What are you doing here?"

"Mia?" he asked in alarm. "Mia, what happened?"

Krasmira raised a hand, stopping him in his tracks. "Viktor, this is a medical issue. Please respect her privacy and do as I asked."

"No, it's okay," Hermione told her Mistress, even as she slightly listed to the side. "Viktor can stay." Her voice was small. "I...I want him to stay."

The very sight of her weakness made his heart stutter. Something was wrong. Something was _very_ wrong.

Hurrying forward, he took her hand and clasped it gently, trying to warm up her cold and clammy skin. "Mia, what happened?" He asked again as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Won't you tell me what's wrong?"

Almost as if she were in a dream, Hermione replied slowly, "I…I'm not sure. I...must have fallen asleep last night, and this morning I woke up and felt awful. I checked, though," she suddenly hastened to reassure Krasmira, her voice clear, "that I didn't have a fever or anything. I wouldn't ever put the team at risk."

Krasmira briefly rested a gentle hand on Hermione's arm. "I wouldn't dare think otherwise. You're a wonderful apprentice. Now, can you recite your symptoms for me?"

It took a few seconds before she nodded, and a few more after that before she began. "Tremors, sustained and intermittent. Headache." She paused, and Krasmira nodded encouragingly as she slowly waved her wand over Hermione's figure, frowning deeper and deeper at the readings she was generating. "Fuzziness. Sometimes pain, throughout my body. Fatigue."

Convulsively, his hand tightened around Hermione's. He had heard about these symptoms before, when he was in class at Durmstrang. It was...it sounded like…

"Krasmira," he said, pleased when his voice didn't shake, "I think I should step outside and make a floo call."

"I was just about to do so myself." Krasmira's words were clipped, her emotions clearly roiling just below the surface as she tried to keep a calm head around Hermione. "It's imperative that we do."

Normally, Hermione would have asked questions, like who they were calling, what for, and why. Instead, she simply sat there listlessly, her face flat. It was only when he tried to disentangle his hand from Hermione's that she stirred, clutching at him in a vice grip. "Viktor, I don't want you to leave." She looked up at him, her brown eyes wide and glassy. "I don't—won't you please stay— _please_ —"

Immediately, he came closer, sitting on the bed and wrapping an arm around her. At his touch, she shivered convulsively and flinched away before shrinking into his side. It almost broke his heart.

"I'm not going anywhere, _mila_ ," he promised, voice rough. "I'll be right here."

In the end, it was Krasmira who stepped out and summoned the aurors while Viktor stayed with her, his head resting against the top of hers. Feelings and confessions be damned, he'd do whatever she needed. She appeared to need and want him and his touch, so give it he would.

Tenderly, he asked, "How are you feeling, _lyubim_?"

She sighed. "I'm so tired, Viktor. I'm just so tired." She shook again, her body trembling. "I don't understand what all the fuss is about," she murmured. "It's nothing serious. It's likely just a small cold or something like it."

He straightened up and peered into her eyes. She was completely in earnest. "Mia, it's not that at all. There's evidence that you've been _Crucio_ ed."

" _Crucio_ ed? By who?" Blankly, she looked at him. "That's impossible. Wouldn't I remember that?"

"I've found evidence that your memory has been tampered with." Krasmira had returned just in time to hear Hermione's question. "It's absolutely despicable. Hermione, dear, what do you remember of last night? Anything at all?"

At once, Hermione nodded. "Of course." She trembled again, the motion ripping through her convulsively. "I came home from work, and I began packing to go home since the summer is over. I...I read a letter that I received from Professor McGonagall." She gave a shadow of a smile. "I think that a lot of things will be different for me at Hogwarts next year, based off her letter."

"As they should be," Krasmira replied firmly. "Keep going. You got the letter, and then what happened?"

"Well, I…I…I suppose I went to sleep? I must have seen Magellan at some point, I'm sure. We tend to pass each other in the evenings, if we see each other at all."

Magellan. Just the mention of his name made Viktor's rage rise up, strong and fast. He had to be involved somehow. He was sure of it, especially with the argument the two of them had had a few days ago.

"Mister Quickfoot has been acting suspiciously all summer," he told her. "Mia's told me about it. He's vanished multiple times during the summer and had suspicious wizards visit her, and once, he even kicked her out of their house...I wouldn't be surprised if he was somehow involved."

Kramsira looked horrified. "He _kicked you out?_ "

"It was only one night. Viktor let me stay over and sleep in a spare room. And just because he hasn't been the most present doesn't mean he hasn't been good other times," she defended her guardian. "It's complicated, but really, I don't think he's capable of something like this."

She leaned more heavily against him, her support of Magellan sapping what energy she had. Cuddling her small form closer against him, he tucked her head underneath his chin. " _Shh_. Quiet, now. We can figure out the _why_ s and _who_ s later. Just rest now, Mia. Lay your head against me and close your eyes. I'm right here. You're safe. I'll keep watch over you."

"Vitya," she breathed, and his heart leapt at the nickname as she used it for the first time, "is it okay if I rest for just for a minute? It won't be long, I promise." Her eyes slipped shut. "Just a minute…"

He stroked her hair and felt her breathing even out. When he was sure she was asleep, he looked up at Krasmira with murder in his eyes. "Whoever has done this, I will make sure they pay if it is the last thing I do."

Krasmira nodded grimly in agreement, her features twisted into a seething mass of rage and self-recrimination. "We both will. But Viktor...I should have known. Why did she tell you but not me? She is a child, and as her Mistress, she is mine to protect." She exhaled. "If I had known that something was amiss...if I had just asked better questions—no, if I had asked _any_ questions about her life at home—but I didn't. I was too focussed on the academics and practical aspects. I wish I'd done differently. I _should_ have done differently."

"Don't blame yourself." He pitched his voice to a low murmur so as not to wake the precious girl sleeping against him. "She is completely self-reliant to the point of self-sabotage. I don't know much about her life back in Britain, which I will _certainly_ remedy, but...her parents—she mentioned they're muggles—appear to frequently ignore her and are often displeased with her. It could be that she expects this kind of behaviour from the adults in her life."

"And _that_ is completely unacceptable," the Healer hissed.

"I'm not saying it is," he hastened to reassure her. He stopped short when Hermione stirred, nosing her face further into the hollow of his throat. The warm exhalations of her breath against his skin calmed him, and she went boneless against him as he slowly, slowly, stroked a hand up and down her back. She was so very fragile, he thought, just skin and bones and pure, lovely light.

When he was certain she was settled again, he went on, "She didn't tell me anything, at least not at first. The only reason I knew Quickfoot had kicked her out was because I was here practicing late that evening when she came back to the Healing Halls to sleep. Like I said a minute ago, I think she's so determined to do everything on her own because she's really only had herself to rely on."

Krasmira regarded her apprentice, her expression conflicted. "Doesn't she realise how many people would help her if she but asked? When I reached out to the professors at Hogwarts about her schedule, they fairly fell over themselves to help her, and here the entire team is eating out of the palm of her hand."

He shook his head, mouth tight. "She doesn't see it."

Krasmira's jaw worked as she clasped her hands in front of her in an iron grip. "That will most certainly change, especially after this, even if I have to ram it through her surprisingly thick skull."

The floo connected to the Healing Hall chimed and then glowed moments before two aurors stepped through, their sage green uniforms crisp and their wands loosely held in their hands.

"Madam Lazarov," the older one said, stepping forward and giving a neat bow. "We received a report of something that needed our attention?"

"Konstantin," Krasmira asked in surprise. "They sent the head auror?"

The wizard shrugged and pushed a hand through mussed hair. "You called from the Stadium. If you think they wouldn't send the best, especially with the match coming up tomorrow, you are much mistaken. Now, tell me what has happened." He pulled a notebook out and set it in the air, a quill hovering over it to take notes.

Krasmira began outlining her knowledge and observations of her apprentice's symptoms as Konstantin stepped forward towards Hermione, and Viktor hunched over her protectively.

Konstantin arched a brow at the move. "Boy," he told him wryly, "I am not going to hurt her. I'm here to help her." Behind him, his partner stirred as he took in the scene, his dark brown eyes sweeping the room.

Viktor clenched his jaw and closed his eyes for a brief moment before opening them and meeting the auror's gaze. "I know. I know, I just...she is precious to me. One of the most precious things, in fact. If I even think you're considering something…" he exhaled sharply. "I can't be held accountable for my actions."

After considering him for a long moment, Konstantin shrugged. "Any interest in joining the Aurors?" he asked idly. At Viktor's incredulous look, he lifted a shoulder. "I just had to ask. No need to get shirty about it. Now, please, if you will, Mr Krum, lay her flat. We'll need to run some spellwork of our own."

Reluctantly, Viktor did as instructed, arranging her as carefully and gently as he could on the bed. As Konstantin raised his wand and let it hover over her head, Viktor sat on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on her arm. Almost to himself, he murmured, "I should have been there to protect her."

"Could you have known it was going to happen?" Konstantin inquired mildly, looking at the readings coming from his wand.

"I…" he paused. "I don't think so, but I've known there was something wrong with her home life."

Konstantin transferred the entirety of his attention to him. "Care to explain?"

Succinctly, he sketched out what he knew of her circumstances, and Konstantin frowned. "While that does seem neglectful, I wouldn't say that it is a prelude to something as utterly depraved as the Cruciatus and an Obliviation." He shook his head. "The former is, of course, a Class One Unforgivable, but unsanctioned Obliviations, especially on young minds, are just as heinous, if you ask me."

Turning to his partner, he ordered him to go to Hermione's house to retrieve Quickfoot after getting the address from Krasmira. "While Quickfoot's actions don't cast him in a good light, it doesn't automatically make him guilty. The truth will out, eventually. We'll see what happens shortly, Mr Krum."

He went over to Krasmira and began a low voiced conference with her. Moments later, Krasmira was showing him the results from Hermione's vitals spell, and the auror was scowling as his quill raced across the paper.

"Her body clearly displays the classic hallmarks of the Cruciatus, and there's clear evidence of memory tampering as well like you said," he murmured, tapping the paper thoughtfully. "It doesn't make much sense as to _why_ she would be targeted, though. Does she have any enemies in Britain that would want to harm her?"

Both he and Krasmira glanced at each other as they tried to recall if she had mentioned anyone. "Not that I can think of," Krasmira finally said. "She hasn't offered very much about her life back there, either. For an adolescent girl, she's surprisingly tight-lipped."

"She hasn't mentioned anything to me in terms of enemies either," Viktor added. "We're...we're fairly close—No, _extremely_ close. I would hope by now she would have mentioned something to me if there was something."

He wasn't so sure she would, though. Sometimes there was a fey look in her eyes that she got when she thought nobody was looking, a strange, fleeting expression that he couldn't yet decipher. His Hermione had secrets, yet, secrets that he was determined she would reveal to him in time.

The floo flared again and Konstantin's partner announced his return before stepping through, Quickfoot on his heels. Beelining for Hermione, he raked his gaze over her still form before looking up at Krasmira.

"How is she?" he asked. "I could tell that she was under the weather last night, but...I didn't expect this. I could never have—I could hardly believe—" He broke off. "The Cruciatus? Are you certain?"

"Of course I'm certain," Krasmira snapped. "And Hermione is as well as someone who has had an Unforgivable used against them could be, which is not well at all. Her body is in a state of shock, and her nerve damage is moderate. She'll suffer the effects of this for weeks, though her exposure wasn't long enough to cause lasting damage. Given adequate treatment, care, and rest, she should make a full recovery."

"I'll take extremely good care of her," Quickfoot promised fervently, smoothing a hand over her forehead. "She's very dear to me."

The sight of Quickfoot putting his hands on her made Viktor grind his teeth. He didn't so much as deserve to be _near_ Hermione, let alone touching her.

Konstantin shifted, drawing attention to him. "While your concern for your ward is admirable, Mr Quickfoot, I must insist on asking you a few questions. Where were you last night?"

"I was with Radomir Kostadin," he said promptly. A moment later, he frowned. "Why, am I a suspect?"

"It's simply procedure, Mr Quickfoot." Konstantin's quill paused for a moment. "And Mr Kostadin can verify this?"

Viktor's brows raised as Quickfoot failed to immediately respond in the affirmative, his jaw working as he looked down at the floor. Just as the silence had grown long enough to be of note, he sighed and met Konstantin's eyes. "I wasn't with Kostadin," he admitted, the words clearly painful to admit. "I was with Svetlana."

"Svetlana?" Konstantin probed.

Studiously avoiding looking even so much in the direction of Viktor, the wizard muttered, "Svetlana Krum."

If Hermione hadn't told Viktor about this already, chances were that Viktor would have drawn his wand on him. As it was, Konstantin's partner made a move towards him as he fought to keep from lunging forward and instead took several deep breaths. This wasn't about Kosta and Svetlana. This was about Hermione.

"Steady now," the auror murmured to him. Viktor glared at the wizard in response, but the auror was unphased, merely staring back at him with a steady gaze.

"So you were with Svetlana last night, and not Radomir as you previously said?" Konstantin pressed.

"Correct."

"All night?"

"Until this morning."

"And she'll verify your whereabouts?"

Quickfoot nodded. "She will, if pressed. We've been...well, we've been trying to keep it quiet so that word didn't get back to her husband. I suppose that's no longer an issue, now."

His eyes narrow, Viktor fairly spat, "We already knew about it."

"You did?" Quickfoot appeared vaguely surprised.

"Yes. I told him a few days ago."

As Quickfoot seemed poised to continue this line of inquiry, Konstantin raised a hand to interrupt the conversation. "As interesting as this matter might be, I would like to get back to the more immediate issue at hand. Mr Quickfoot, if you'd be so kind as to hand over your wand?"

"My wand?" he repeated. "What for?"

"To check it," Konstantin said, visibly trying to keep his patience.

Viktor watched as Quickfoot weighed his options. At last, cooperation won out, and the wizard pulled a sleeve of his robes up and pointedly pulled his wand, a pale ash, out of its holster before handing it over.

The auror checked it over using some kind of runic incantation he etched in the air. "Clear," the head auror announced tonelessly before handing it back.

The English wizard looked triumphant, and Viktor bit back a snarl as the blonde loftily declared, "This was really quite unnecessary. Hermione is very near and dear to my heart. I care for her greatly and the last thing I would ever want would be for her to land in some kind of danger."

"Is that so?" Viktor snapped, unable to control himself as disappointment and fury warred in him. "Do you care for her greatly enough that you would leave her home alone for long stretches of time? Greatly enough that you would kick her out of her own home at the drop of a hat and that you would entertain wizards that made her uncomfortable? Greatly enough that she has trouble trusting you? Is that how greatly you care for her? If so, your version of 'greatly' and mine differ quite widely, _Mr Quickfoot._ "

"Now see here, Krum—" Quickfoot started toward him with a dark expression, only to be held back by Konstantin's hand.

At the sound of his raised voice, Hermione shifted, the first move she'd made since Viktor had laid her flat. To a person, they all froze in place, a tableau of angry wizards stopped for want of keeping the witch asleep. Exhaling, she burrowed further into her pillow, slipping deeper into sleep. All the wizards relaxed, although Krasmira kept a watchful eye on her.

"You have no place making accusations like that," Quickfoot continued in a low hiss, his eyes snapping with temper. "She and I have a complicated relationship. It's not as bad as all that."

Viktor merely folded his arms. "Isn't it?"

"So you do admit to doing the things that Mr Krum has accused you of?" Konstantin interjected. His notebook flipped to a new page and the quill started writing furiously.

Caught out, Quickfoot winced. "Yes, well—I—not precisely—"

"A simple yes or no will suffice."

"Yes. Yes, I did those things, but Hermione and I have talked it out and I've sworn not to do them again. They were mistakes, I'll admit it, but I've turned over a new leaf!" There was something almost desperate in his tone, something haggard and frayed.

"Good intentions or not, Mr Quickfoot," Konstantin said sternly, "Hermione is an underaged witch. I'm not certain about the laws in England, but in Bulgaria the activities that you just admitted to count as child negligence. That," he said significantly, "is all in addition to the fact that she was subjected to an Unforgivable while in your care. I cannot in good conscience leave her in your care for the remainder of your time here, and I will also be notifying the proper authorities in England."

Triumph swept through Viktor. Hermione would go somewhere safer now, somewhere where someone cared for her well-being far more than Magellan Quickfoot ever had.

"You can't do that!" Quickfoot protested, leaning forward aggressively. "She's mine! I have to protect her from all shadows and darkness the world has to hold."

"And a good job of that you've done," Viktor muttered loud enough for them all to hear.

"As noble as those intentions are, Mr Quickfoot," Konstantin said firmly, "you've been unable to do so thus far." At that, Quickfoot looked as though he had been punched in the gut, his expression haunted. "Hermione will have to be placed somewhere else for the remainder of her time here."

"She can stay with me," Viktor immediately offered. "Or my mother. She would love to house Mia. If neither of us are suitable, I'm fairly certain Clara would take her."

For the first time since the entire event transpired, Krasmira stirred, striding forward from her position by Hermione's side to join the group. "Hermione Granger is my apprentice, and she will be staying with nobody else but me. We were formally bound together at the recent conference in Italy on 21 July. I can procure a copy of the agreement if you like."

The black-haired auror nodded. "I would appreciate that."

Carelessly, Krasmira held out her hand in the direction of her office. A moment later a scroll floated out and placed itself in her hand. Another moment later and the scroll had duplicated itself, whereupon she handed it to Konstantin.

Looking it over, he announced at last, "Everything seems in order. I release her into your care."

"It's a shame that you treated someone you claim you care for so dearly as you have," Viktor couldn't resist telling Quickfoot. "If you had simply done your duty, you may have been able to keep custody of Hermione."

Quickfoot pressed his lips together, his eyes dark and pained. "You don't know anything, Viktor. You don't know anything at all."

"I think I know enough," he replied swiftly. "Enough to know that you're a wizard that doesn't know to treasure what he has. You're both negligent and unreliable. If I have my way, Mia will stay far away from you from now on. Here, _and_ in Britain."

The older wizard scoffed. "As if you have any say in that."

Viktor smirked. "You might be surprised."

Krasmira stepped forward, her spine straight. "And even if he does not," she interjected, "I do. And _you_ have no right to be around my apprentice."

Sirius's eyes darkened. "Just because she's your apprentice doesn't mean—"

"Actually," Konstantin interrupted, "she does under the Magus Memorium of 1322." He locked eyes with Quickfoot, his stance reminiscent of a panther coiled to strike. "If you want to dishonor and attempt to disrupt one of the most sacrosanct bonds in all of wizarding history, be my guest. I won't say what will happen to you. As it stands, Krasmira Lazarov is one of the most renowned Healers in the world. I would tread carefully, here, if I were you."

"Give it up, Quickfoot." Viktor crossed his arms. "She's only here a week more, and then her guardianship will revert to her muggle parents and to whomever he magical guardian is in Britain. You don't have any power to keep her any longer."

"Actually," Krasmira interjected, "Hermione's magical guardianship will remain with me, as I am her Mistress. She's my ward, now, and will be until she is a Healer in her own right or reaches her majority, whichever comes first. Truthfully, she was effectively my ward from the time we signed the papers onwards, but I thought not to make too much of a fuss about it since it all seemed to be going well."

Her eyes darkened. "I should have asked her more questions. It is a mistake I will not make again, I assure you."

It was the first time that Viktor had ever seen Quickfoot look less than composed. Running a hand over his hair, he stared at Hermione with his mouth pressed in a thin line. "I don't understand how it's come to this," he murmured, his words clearly meant for himself. "I just don't understand." Turning his gaze to Krasmira, he asked, "Could I see her when I wished?"

Krasmira deliberated for a long, tense minute. At last, she replied, "If Hermione wishes it."

Quickfoot swallowed. "That's all I ask."

As he passed Viktor on his way out, Viktor caught his arm. Lowly, he murmured, "It's true that you may care for her, but I know—I know that you were involved in some way. I don't have any proof, but trust me, as soon as I find some, I will do truly unspeakable things to you. And even without that," he promised, "I am going to ruin you."

To his surprise, Quickfoot smiled at that. "I would have liked you in another lifetime, you know. Really, I would have. You remind me of someone I used to know, who did everything he could to protect those he loved." There was something broken in his eyes. "Yes, I would have liked you very well. But in this life...Viktor, you'd do your very best to stay away from things you don't understand. It's for your own good."

"And you Quickfoot," he replied with an air of finality, "had best not underestimate me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Boring but important life announcements_
> 
> Hello. I am sorry for being late. I'm having some really serious medical issues that have caused me to take a leave of absence from work, and it is also affecting my writing. Luckily, I am able to keep writing. Hooray for all of us! Also luckily, the rough draft of the rest of the chapters for this fic is already done, and most of my time is spent editing and rewriting things as I decide I dislike it (most typical) or discover it doesn't quite fit characterizations or the larger plot (also typical).
> 
> That being said, it might take longer for me to update this than the usual week - possibly 10 days to two weeks, and I will not be as present replying to your reviews. I am very grateful for them and I really treasure them all, but I might not have the energy to reply. Just know I read them all, as they make my day.
> 
> FYI...The sequel is turning into a monster. I am intimidated already, and I'm only 40K in. More to love, I suppose!


End file.
